


Reset Room

by Legs (InsanityRule)



Series: A Modicum of Humanity Makes Everything Harder [9]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Fight Scenes, Hallucinations, M/M, Medical stuff, Mental Illness, Minor Character Death, Offscreen character death, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Psychological Trauma, Unexpected Pregnancy, Unreliable Narrator, anger issues, mental health, more tags to come, recreational drugs use, research and science, self inflicted injury, switching POV between Bruce and Ed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2018-09-20 07:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 38
Words: 216,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9481820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanityRule/pseuds/Legs
Summary: Bruce has returned to Gotham, and following his recovery he and his team is putting all of their energies towards finding Strange and stopping his plan, but Ed and Oswald are struggling to handle some of the fallout Ed's pointedly ignoring following his rescue from Strange, Jim Gordon is discovering some less glamorous parts about his new position, and no one is ready to handle the surprises coming their way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feel free to message me at zsaszmatazz.tumblr.com for more specific warnings.

“Alfred. I need a brief summary of the target.” He releases the button of his communicator and scans the alleyway for passersby. Currently he’s the only occupant excluding a few mice.

“Warren Jones is a weapon’s distributor for the North end of Gotham. Commissioner Gordon tells me Oswald-er, Mr. Cobblepot, apologies, gave him his name per their agreement following your rescue. He would appreciate swift attention on this matter.”

“Of course.” He scans again, still clear, although he adjusts his view slightly. “I’m certain Oswald would be more than accepting of you referring to him by his first name.” First name basis implies closeness, possibly friendship.

“I’m sure he would, but I’ll stick to proper etiquette for now master B.”

“Certainly.” He takes a moment to access his file on Jones, Warren. This should be a simple assignment. Warren isn’t well trained and has a “skittish” nature. He’ll have Commissioner Gordon’s man in custody before midnight.

On that note, “following this assignment remind me to send Commissioner Gordon a heartfelt congratulations on behalf of Wayne Enterprises and the Wayne family, along with an apology for my tardiness.”

“You already have Master B. I scheduled a gift basket to be delivered to his home following his announcement.”

“Thank you Alfred. In that case, invite Commissioner Gordon to dine with us at the Manor as a personal congratulations among friends, and as a thank you for his help. See if Ed and Oswald would like to join us as well.”

“You’re rather insistent on including them in your personal life Master B. Just an observation.”

“I owe them my life Alfred.” He states calmly. “And without their tireless efforts I would still be under Strange’s control.” A light in one of the buildings flips off and Bruce tenses. “I also had Ed retrieve my mail while we were gone and wanted to give him an opportunity to bring it to me without making a special trip.”

“You’ve had _him_ getting the mail? You realize he’s probably gone through it.”

Bruce swings off his perch on the roof and onto the second story fire escape. “If I’m not mistaken _you_ go through my mail.”

“To check for bombs or other hazards! He’ll do it for laughs.”

“He’ll never be trustworthy if we don’t give him an opportunity to prove himself.” And Bruce wants to provide Ed and Oswald every opportunity to build that trust. “Based on the lack of any report of an explosion at their home he’s either found nothing or never opened any mail in the first place. Neither option is particularly negative.”

“It’s one thing to ask them for information Master Bruce. It’s another thing entirely to invite them over for a dinner party.”

“I’m considering it as a thank you Alfred. They discovered where I was being kept.” He’d like to extend the offer to Victor Zsasz if he was able, but Arkham is reluctant to give him up following his three month vacation from his cell. “I’ll see if Selina would like to come as well.”

“As thanks, Master B?” He smiles at Alfred’s unspoken accusation.

“Among other things.” He briefly calculates the distance to her apartment from his current location. “There’s a possibility I’ll be home in the morning rather than tonight.”

“Please do me this one favor and spare me any details about your potential evening.”

“Is it expected that I buy her something? Three months is a good deal of time between meetups.”

“As much as I enjoy speaking with you about this matter,” Alfred says, tone suggesting he doesn’t enjoy this in the slightest, “we’ve spent the last three months with no one's company but our own, and I’d certainly appreciate a few moments of silence to finish getting properly settled.”

“I have no qualms with this,” he whispers, “Because my target has left his office and I need to move quietly.”

“Best of luck Master B.” And the line goes silent.

Warren Jones is approximately five foot eleven inches, weighing 170 pounds. He’s Caucasian, and his brown hair is covered by a knit cap. He has no obvious facial scars or notable features. This file does not indicate physical prowess. Bruce can likely outrun him if it becomes a chase, or take him easily in a fistfight.

The alley has two exits; one to the main road to the left and another smaller road to Bruce’s immediate right, cutting through the first floor of the building. If he runs to the left Bruce will throw a Batarang in order to cause confusion and possibly end in a fall. If he runs to the side road he’ll grapple a ledge in order to swing down. In both instances a simple headlock and arm twist should incapacitate him without causing permanent damage. He tenses, leg muscles ready to send him after Mr. Jones.

Warren glances up and around, eyes landing on Bruce. He freezes for a moment, Bruce lifts slightly to leap off the fire escape, and Warren bolts, but he only gets two steps into his escape before he slips on some of the few lingering patches of ice still hanging around in shaded areas, and stayed down, knocked unconscious by his fall.

Bruce sighs as he stands up fully, disbelief and a vague wariness replacing what he acknowledges as excitement, and he carefully climbs down off the fire escape and walks over to the patch of ice where Mr. Jones landed. He checks for a pulse and breathing,and finds both, and also gives him a brief check for any head injury. The surrounding area is blood free, as is Mr. Jones’ person.

“You know, I was beginning to feel a measure of excitement when you tried to run away. It’s been awhile since I’ve gotten to apprehend someone that’s breaking the law.” He crouches and idly applies handcuffs to Warren Jones’ wrists. “In fact, I was beginning to look forward to telling the story of how I was able to apprehend you without any collateral damage to you or anyone’s property.” He shakes his head. “The way this played out is considerably less exciting to tell. For both of our sakes I’ll tell people that while I was able to apprehend you you gave me a significant challenge. Although, considering your current state I’m not sure why I’m telling you this.”

“It’s because you like to hear yourself talk.”

He smiles and stands, turning towards the fire escape and looking up. “Selina.”

“You get back in town and you don’t even bother to give me a call? I thought we were friends.”

“We are.” He uses his grappler to reach the second story and slowly winches himself up. Selina is laughing at him as he comes to stand by her. “What’s so funny?”

“I can’t believe you used that thing to get up here. Dork.”

“I can’t jump that high.” He glances behind himself for a moment to check on Warren Jones, and when he turns back he lifts his cowl. “I was going to come see you after I finished tonight.”

“I don’t know, I think I’m busy.” She stands and walks a bit closer. “See, there's this guy that likes to climb through my window when he wants a little company, and I’d hate to have to turn him away.”

“Is he handsome?” Bruce asks. He smiles wider when Selina grabs his communicator from his ear.

“He’s alright. A little boyish. And he’s had the same dumb haircut since he was thirteen.”

She grabs his hair and tugs gently. He groans softly, correcting her with a curt, “twelve.” At least he’s fairly certain of that fact.

“Sounds like you know the guy.”

“I might have an idea or two regarding his identity. Maybe I should stop by to make sure he’s treating you with respect. I hear he’s a bit of a handful.”

And that’s what makes her smile the most. “Yeah okay. Maybe you should.”

-

Bruce take a moment to sit up in order to place a pillow behind his back, then resettles against the fabric covered headboard on Selina’s bed. She’s up and about, shamelessly idling around in her apartment with just an afghan draped over her shoulders and upper arms. Not that Bruce is at all displeased by the lack of cover.

She’s giving her cats milk and a few treats. Bruce’s presence isn’t allowed to disrupt her nightly routine. He’s fine with this as well. Selina’s always been fiercely independent from day one, and he wouldn’t dare to even _dream_ about changing her.

“You’re staring.” She looks up at him from a bowl she’s filling; Bruce nods once and continues to do just that. “Thought you weren’t supposed to let yourself be distracted.”

“I’m not. You have my full attention.” And he’s off duty. The city can’t honestly expect him to ignore basic needs 24/7.

She snorts, “okay.” Selina rolls her eyes in a fond way and turns around. “Stop staring at my ass.”

“I prefer the term admiring. It suggests a reverence that “staring” lacks.”

“You’re something else Bruce Wayne. I Bet you had to fend ladies off with a Batarang in Europe.”

“Alfred and I kept to ourselves.” And he spent half that time recovering from his injuries, plus the time he and Ed exchanged cryptic messages regarding Strange’s movements. The only leisure activity he did was sleep.

“Oh so you didn’t have _any_ sex in three months?” Bruce shrugs. He’s not embarrassed; some things are more important than sex. “Good thing I came to your rescue tonight.”

“I’m sure I’d survive.” Although he can’t deny he feels more relaxed than he has in ages. Selina gives him a knowing look, and also a glass of water after she crosses the room. “Thank you.”

“So,” she draws out the syllable as she flops onto her side, elbow holding up her head, “did you learn anything in Sweden or Baklava or wherever you were?”

Bruce laughs. “Baklava is a dessert.” Selina shrugs, indifferent. Bruce sets aside his glass and slides down so he’s lying on his back, looking up at the cracked ceiling. “I was in Norway, actually.”

“Got a cute little cottage up in the mountains?”

“I do now, although replace the mountains with a lake.” He’s rather fond of the little house already. It was  peaceful trip. “I apologize for not extending an invitation, but we left rather abruptly.”

“Don’t sweat it. I wouldn’t have left for three months. There’s way too much work to do here.” She starts playing with his hair. “Make it a week and I might agree. Then I can get some baklava.”

“Maybe.” He doesn't put up a fight when Selina pulls back the blankets, although he does suck in a breath of surprise when the cool air hits his exposed skin. But he is feeling a little playful, so he complains, “Selina it’s cold. You should share this.” He steals her afghan and covers back up.

“You’re still a spoiled brat,” she says as she slips under the afghan and straddles Bruce’s lap. Her curly head pokes out from under the edge of the blanket. “Better?”

“Much.” He closes his eyes for a moment and allows himself to get lost in the sensation. It’s a luxury he can’t often allow himself to have.

And apparently he still can’t. He huffs in frustration as his communicator shrieks, demanding his attention. He reaches over to the bedside table and puts it in his ear. “Sorry,” he says up to Selina. He taps the answer button. “Yes Alfred?”

“Are you terribly busy at the moment Master Bruce? I’d hate to keep you away from Miss Kyle for long.”

 _You aren’t_ , he thinks as he runs his hands over her toned legs. “Now is alright. I’ll be here until morning, by the way.”

“Wonderful sir. If you could do me a favor and confirm her absence or presence at this dinner you’re planning I would be very grateful. I’ve gotten responses from the rest of your proposed guests already.”

“Would you like to come to dinner?” he asks.

“Just can’t stand the thought of leaving my side can you.”

“It’s for everyone that helped during my retrieval from Strange’s lab. Minus Victor Zsasz of course. I’m sure Arkham won’t want to loan him out for a few hours.”

“Sure,” she says. “I’d _love_ to.” She punctuated that with some very clever hip movements, and Bruce has to steel himself with a deep breath. Alfred wouldn’t appreciate him moaning into the communicator. He’s just thankful he possesses an above average will.

“She’ll be there.” He replies quickly and turns off the communicator on his end. “You’re not very patient.”

“I’m just helping you make up for lost time.” Is she ever. “When did you learn in Norway anyway?”

Bruce has to concentrate a bit harder than normal to formulate his next sentence. “We learned that, Selina it’s hard to answer when you do that,” he stills her hips with his hands, “it’s very likely that I still am susceptible to the conditioning implemented by Strange, but we believe that while I’m in peak condition I can resists his control, at least in theory.”

“That kind of sucks.” She lies on top of him with her arms crossed over his chest.

“It’s certainly less than ideal.” He agrees. “I’m going to enlist Ed’s investigative services and see what he can come up with. In the meantime I’m going back to my usual routine.”

“Bet there’s a lot of catching up to do, cleaning up the streets. Maybe you should go home tonight so you can get an early start.”

She’s kidding, and even if she wasn’t, he has no plan to leave tonight. “Are you kicking me out?”

“Nope. You’re the goody two shoes here. It’s not _my_ guilty conscience you have to worry about.”

“I think I’ll manage.” He runs his hand up her back. “I’m expecting to be thoroughly distracted from my duties if I stay.”

“Horribly.” She sits up and tugs his hair again. He groans quietly, appreciative. “Guess you have a bit of a rebellious side.”

“I’ve only been GCPD approved for a week. Until last Tuesday I _was_ a rebel of sorts. A rebel for justice.”

“You are such a dork. I can’t believe I’m going to sleep with you again.”

Neither can he some days but he’s not complaining. She kisses him, and he rolls the both of them over on he bed.

-

Bruce opens the front door of the Manor after hearing a polite knock and nods in greeting to Oswald and Ed. He notices the latter has a very full file bag over one shoulder. “Good evening.”

“Hello,” Oswald waves his hand.

“I have your mail as requested.” Ed adjusts his file bag (real leather, and very well cared for).

“Thank you. And thank you both for coming. We can go over things following dinner." Bruce stands aside and allows Ed and Oswald to enter, canes tapping lightly as they clear the threshold. He shuts the door behind them and gives them his full attention.

Oswald claps his hand against Bruce’s and shakes vigorously. “I’m sure you’ve already heard this countless times, but I’d like to personally welcome you home to Gotham. I can safely say it hasn’t been the same without you.”

“Thank you.” There’s a certain reluctance Oswald has to release Bruce’s hand. Bruce would like to find out why. Still, to be polite, he shakes Ed’s hand as well. “It’s good to be home.”

“I can imagine the familiarity is preferable.” Ed tells him, and then turns back to Oswald. “Oswald, I am going to find a seat at the table. Bruce, apologies, but my leg has been cramping today and I’d prefer to sit.”

“Yes of course. I’m sure you know the way.”

He smiles at them both before turning away and walking to the dining room.

“Save me a seat,” Oswald calls after him. “So, I’m sure you noticed something about Ed.”

“Yes, and I have a sneaking suspicion you wanted to speak with me about something. We have a few minutes before dinner will begin serving.”

Oswald smiles, mirthless, but not cruel. “You always have been rather astute. I do have something I’d like to discuss.” He looks to the hall and back to Bruce. “Obviously it’s about Ed.”

“Is this about his injury?” Oswald nods. “I’m sorry I haven’t been available to talk during his early recovery. Messages were difficult to send securely.”

“Please, don’t hold yourself accountable in any way. His doctor has done an excellent job. What I’d like to bring to your attention isn’t dire by any means. I just wanted my wishes known before you allow a certain felonious feline to demand your attentions post meal.”

“We can discuss your concerns when Ed debriefs me about my mail.” He makes a mental note to give Ed access to a private phone line in case he would like to talk in the future. “We should join the others.”

Because Alfred was also one of the people responsible for Bruce’s safe return Bruce dismissed him from the kitchen in favor of making dinner himself. Hours ago he placed several whole chickens into a smoker and roasted some potatoes and other fresh vegetables on the stove. It’s not near as elaborate as Alfred would have prepared, but Bruce wants to show his appreciation for all the people that helped.

Minus Zsasz. He finds himself rather displeased about the whole affair. Still, he’s not fit to mingle with the general public, and Bruce recognizes the necessity to isolate him, although he would prefer having a say regarding his current treatment plan.

Once the table is set and everyone has a drink in front of them Bruce holds up his glass of wine, intending to toast. Selina groans, “you’re going to make us listen to you before we eat aren’t you.”

“I’d like to thank all of you properly,” he tells her. “As you all know I was in Norway for several months while Alfred and I attempted to learn whether or not Strange could attempt to get me under his control again, and as a result I was unable to tell you all how appreciative I am that you set aside your differences in order to come to my aid. I’m sure it was more difficult for some than it was for others.”

“Jim,” Oswald coughs, and Ed laughs quietly. Commissioner Gordon gives them both a weary look.

“Your sacrifices will not be forgotten. If any of you require anything in the future please come to me, and I will do what I can to help. Thank you.” He raises his glass, waiting until everyone does the same and take a moment to look at everyone before taking a drink. “Please help yourselves.”

Everyone begins passing food and eating, and Bruce is pleased to see everyone appears to be enjoying the food.

“Not to suggest that you’re a better cook than Ed, which I sincerely doubt is possible,” Ed beams at Oswald and Oswald pats his shoulder, “but I can recognize a well smoked bird when I see one.”

“Personal experience?” Commissioner Gordon asks, and Oswald fumes at him. Bruce silently agrees to let them bicker and turns his attentions elsewhere, to the quieter end of the table.

“You’ve been rather quiet tonight Alfred.”

“Just enjoying the company Master B.”

“Without talking?” He hasn’t known Alfred to be chatty, but he also isn’t usually so reserved.

“I can certainly enjoy the company of others without having to say a word sir.” Alfred replies. “Should the conversation,” he says this as he side-eyes Oswald, who’s in the middle of a heated discussion with Commissioner Gordon, “direct itself my way I’ll certainly join in. Until then I find myself enjoying my meal, sir.”

“Bet he wouldn’t shut up in Norway,” Selina says around a small mouthful.

Alfred smiles, but Bruce can see a tightness around his eyes and a slight clenching of his jaw. “You aren’t wrong, Miss Kyle.”

Bruce smiles and lets them laugh at his expense. He foregoes conversation for awhile and focuses on his plate of food. After he’s completed his discussions with Ed and Oswald he’ll inquire about Alfred’s concerns; he’s fairly certain he knows what has been bothering Alfred.

Dinner ends somewhat abruptly when Commissioner Gordon apologizes profusely between answering an urgent phone call. “Small scale riot at Blackgate. Duty calls.”

“Do you require assistance?” Bruce asks, already mentally sprinting to the Batcave to change.

“We should be alright. I just have to do some paperwork.” He grimaces. “Worst part of the promotion. Have a nice night guys.”

Bruce watches him go, still sort of itching to go out and help him, but Selina abruptly standing gets his attention away from the city. “Are you leaving?”

“No.” She winks at him. “I’m going to find a  place to take a cat nap.” She waves. “See you guys.”

Bruce makes a mental note to find her later, upstairs if he’s correct about hearing footsteps on the main staircase. Alfred chuckles under his breath as he folds his napkin into a tight square. “Try to not look too eager Master B.” He sets his napkin on his empty plate and stands. “I’ll begin clearing the table if everyone has finished.”

“Nonsense Alfred,” Bruce says as he stands. “I am the host, and tonight I’ll be clearing the table once I’ve finished discussing matters with Ed and Oswald. Consider yourself dismissed.”

“Thank you sir.” Alfred smiles, genuinely this time. “I’ll be in my quarters should you need anything.”

Bruce nods. “Enjoy your night.” He turns to Ed and Oswald. “If the two of you have finished eating you may join me in the study. If not, that’s where you’ll find me.”

“We’ll join you in a moment.” Oswald tells him, and Bruce nods once before turning away from the table.

Bruce walks to his study at a languid pace. Once he’s arrived he hones in on his small wet bar and pours himself a small glass of brandy, neat, from the glass bottle he received last year as a gift. There’s a small series of warning bells going off in his head, but Bruce shakes them off for now. He’s well aware that things aren’t perfect yet, that there are still uncertainties surrounding his capacity to maintain his free will, but tonight he’s showing his gratitude, celebrating even, and that means he’s allowed to enjoy an alcoholic beverage or two.

On many nights Bruce thinks of his father doing something very similar, possibly loosening his tie and leaning against the window sill like Bruce is doing now, sipping at his own glass of brandy. Maybe he also felt helpless at times, desperate for his efforts to mean something good for someone, anyone.

It might explain a few things, actually. Namely, why he seems to cling so desperately to the betterment of the two men who’ve just entered his private space. He smiles at Ed and Oswald and offers them both a drink, which Ed refuses and Oswald accepts happily. Bruce sits at his desk, after Oswald has his glass, so they can begin.

“I imagine you have quite a lot of mail for me.”

“Yes,” Ed opens up the file bag (real leather, confirmed over dinner) and removes a smaller, more compact file case from inside. “Here is your mail.” He hands it to Bruce. “It’s been sorted by type. Then date. Then alphabetical according to sender.”

“Thank you.” Bruce is genuinely impressed by the level of care he’s put into this task, right down to the neatly written labels on the separating tabs. “This is already far more than I expected. I had dedicated some time tomorrow morning to sort all of this.”

“I like to be thorough.” He says, smiling, then he gasps quietly and scrambles to reach into his bag. “This also arrived about a week ago.”

Ed leans in to set a small package on Bruce’s desk. Bruce turns it over in his hands, noting a familiar company name (PharmaGo) as the return address, and a carefully concealed layer of cut tape under a fresh strip. “Did you open this?”

“No,” Ed says, defensive, then he grimaces, and blurts out, “briefly, yes. It was just very unusual for you to receive a package-”

“Ed,” Bruce interrupts, “Alfred opens most of my mail to check for anything unusual. It would not be the first time something alarming has attempted to reach my desk.” He sets it aside for now. “But thank you for telling me the truth.”

It’s why he asked at all; not because he necessarily wanted the answer to be no, but because he wanted Ed to own up to invading Bruce’s privacy. He’s pleased to see progress, however small it may be. He wants to encourage him to do better, even if it means he sometimes overlooks the larger, ‘you’ve committed a crime’ angle and instead focuses on the ‘own your mistakes’ side of things.

But seeing Ed as he is now, the despondent, unsure expression after Bruce asked him to tell the truth, Bruce understands why Oswald wants to talk, or at least, he can make an educated guess. There’s a certain cadence to Ed’s voice that he’s lacking; a confident lilt that deepens his pitch by a half step and helps to smooth out his rapid-fire conversations isn’t there. He’s also leaning on his cane, but not heavily, not the way someone in immense pain leans on their preferred aid. Because of these observations Bruce is going to assume this is less of a physical health and more of a mental health concern.

Oswald glances at Ed, and back to Bruce, and Bruce nods, encouraging him that he hasn’t forgotten, and intends to change the subject starting now. Clearly, this is an immediate concern, and even though Oswald said it wasn’t dire Bruce can’t help but feel worried for them both. He takes a breath, and addresses the problem head on. “Ed, Oswald has brought forth a concern.”

Ed’s forehead creases in confusion. He looks to Oswald, and Oswald nods. “He’s telling the truth.”

“This is the first I’m hearing about any concerns,” he says, and Oswald sputters. “I’m fairly certain there are no concerns.”

“Alright,” Bruce let's Ed lead the narrative for now. “How have you been?” Bruce asks. “I haven’t gotten a chance to ask about your recovery.”

“I’ve been well.” Ed nods to himself. “My muscle tone has increased, and no unforeseen complications have arisen.” Oswald rolls his eyes. “Overall, I have been well.”

“Even so, I would like to apologize properly for causing this.” He left the country so abruptly that the only apology he managed was a curt “sorry” he muttered after asking Ed to collect his mail. “I caused you a great deal of pain, and I’m terribly sorry.”

“You weren’t in your right mind," Ed reminds him. “Your fault is negligible.”

“Yes, but had I used more caution when confronting Ivy I wouldn’t have needed rescuing. And I want you both to know that, as of right now, Alfred and I have determined that I am still susceptible to his conditioning, but only just. For now, my actions are by my choice alone.” He takes a moment to write a note before he forgets, and continues. “Which is why I’d like you to research hypnosis if the database I had you working on has been completed, but more importantly right now, I believe Oswald would prefer it if we returned to the topic of _your_ recovery.”

Oswald exhales, the tension in his shoulders fading. “Yes, I would like that very much.”

Ed looks at them both, frowning and reluctant. “I am meeting all physical therapy goals. I appreciate any concern but I am currently within the expected rate of recovery.”

“Physically, yes, I agree.” Bruce folds his hands on his desk. “But recovery is mental as well as physical.” He should know. “And sometimes recovery is incomplete for months, or even years.”

And sometimes, it never really happens, not fully.

Ed looks at the ground, then back up at Bruce, though he doesn’t make eye contact. “My mental state isn’t a concern.”

“Yes, he’s quite fine,” Oswald agrees sarcastically, “if you ignore this,” he gestures to Ed, “and the sudden, overwhelming number of insecurities he’s developed overnight, physical intimacy included,” he mutters, but very clearly, certainly well enough for everyone to hear.

Ed gapes at Oswald, eyes wide, obvious hurt and anger on his face. Bruce sits back in h is chair and says, “I haven’t felt quite like myself either, not since Strange.” Sometimes he can ignore the feeling, but other times it’s like someone shouting in his ear. “It isn’t surprising, unfortunately, for _either_ of us.” He considers dropping the matter before Ed gets any more upset, at least for tonight, but he gives Bruce such a desperately hopeful look, so he continues, this time with a question. “Will the addition of a cane be temporary?”

Ed flexes his fingers against the handle of his cane, looking down at the lacquered wood. “It’s not very likely. There was some peripheral nerve damage.”

Bruce accepts the pang of guilt he feels without any attempt to justify his actions. “I’m sorry.”

“Merely an adjustment.” Ed says. His smile doesn't give Bruce much confidence, and Oswald’s obviously distressed by Ed’s dismissive attitude.

“Adjustments aren’t always easy.” Bruce folds the note he made earlier and holds it out. “This is a number for a private line, should you ever feel the need to speak with me about the adjustments you’re going through, regardless of the hour.” Ed reaches out and takes the note, then pulls out his wallet and slides the note inside. “Sometimes, I find it helpful to talk with people who have gone through similar experiences. I’m afraid I’m all you get, but I hope I can help.”

“Thank you,” he croaks, then clears his throat. “I’m certain it’s nothing, whatever the two of you think is so different, but I appreciate the thought.”

“Anytime.” Bruce is certain this is _far_ from nothing, but progress won’t be made until Ed admits that to himself. “Before the two of you leave could you show Alfred the database you’re making for me Ed? He’s been asking about your system and I think you could explain it best. Oswald, you’re welcome to stay here with me.”

“Certainly,” Ed smiles tensely. “Oswald, I’ll call our driver when I’m done.”

“Take your time.” Ed leaves, and Oswald finishes off his glass of brandy in one long draw. “I’d like a second glass if you’re offering.”

“He’s not terribly happy with you at the moment.” Bruce stands and walks over to the wet bar.

“Well, the feeling is most certainly mutual.” Oswald joins Bruce and holds out his glasses, which he refills. “It seems he neglected to inform anyone that he _was_ susceptible to Strange’s conditioning.”

Bruce sets down the brandy bottle too hard, making a loud clang as it contacts the metal tray. “He said he _wasn’t_ susceptible.”

“Well, the full story is he _lied,_ and he is, but thanks to his broken leg he remained grounded, or something. I only learned this recently, and not before he attempted to sever ties with everyone as a precaution.”

“When you said he has insecurities what did you mean exactly?” he asks. Bruce needs more information before he makes any conclusions.

“Imagine someone that needs approval and reassurance about literally everything, 24/7, and you’ll have Ed as he is right now. He has almost _no_ confidence anymore.”

“He’s shaken,” Bruce guesses.

“Very,” Oswald agrees. He clanks the rim of his glass on Bruce’s and drinks deeply. “It’s infuriating, seeing him like this, and no matter _what_ I say seems to help. And _apparently_ he’s convinced himself that since he told me about Strange that he’s somehow magically _past_ it, which is a complete farce.”

Bruce was afraid of that. “There isn’t much anyone can do to help if he doesn’t think he needs it.”

“I know, but I am terribly busy working on a few possible zoning permits, and as much as I would like to be there for him at all times I just don’t have the time or energy to properly nurse his fragile ego back to its original state. You gave him a few projects to work on, and I am very grateful, because having work to do seems to help. He’s working on a few cases for Jim as well, but I’m sure he won’t turn down more.”

“I might have something,” Bruce says, turning back to his desk and striding over, reaching for the small package and tearing away the tape. Inside the box he finds a single pill bottle, hand labeled, and a note card with a series of studies and trials. “Nora,” he whispers. “Do you know what this is Oswald?”

“You’re obviously not asking me to say _pills_ , but I also haven’t gotten any new degrees since you were in Norway.”

“It’s a treatment for a rare condition Nora Fries suffers from. She’s been in cryogenic stasis for over half of my life while her husband searches for a cure.” He sets the bottle down on his desk and hands Oswald the card. “I’ve been funding several pharmaceutical companies in order to find a cure, and it appears one made a breakthrough.”

“I don’t know this person,” Oswald says as he flips the card over, then back. “What do you want Ed to do with this?”

“Read those, and determine whether or not it is valid.” Bruce digs through his desk until he finds an empty prescription bottle. He copies the label for the treatment and pours half of the pills inside. “And no, you don’t know Nora, but you know Victor Fries.”

“Freeze!?” Oswald holds the card out as if it tried to bite him. “You’re helping Freeze?”

“Yes,” Bruce answers. “He pockets the original bottle and puts the other in his desk. “And I need to inform him of this. If you’re able, please let Selina know I’m leaving for a bit.”

“You’re doing this now?” Oswald sputters. “Do you ever take a night off?”

“He’s been waiting sixteen years,” Bruce says, “and I don’t want to prolong that unnecessarily. Please tell Ed I’ll get into contact with him in the morning to properly detail my requests, and I’ll do my best to encourage an open dialogue between us about Strange.”


	2. Chapter 2

The moment Oswald exits Bruce’s office Ed crowds him, moving just a hair’s width away and hissing out a question. “Why did you tell him that?”

“Is Gabe on his way?” Oswald asks, dodging Ed’s question, flippant and smiling.

“Yes, but I asked you an important question-”

“And I don’t feel like arguing outside of the comfort of my own home, or at least my car if this truly cannot wait. Now, if you can be  _ patient _ , I will answer you shortly.”

Ed fumes, but he nods, trailing after Oswald as he walks through Wayne Manor and out the front door. He jerks the car door open before Gabe can get out to open it for him and drops himself into the seat. He stares straight ahead until Oswald sighs heavily and taps his hand.

“What.”

“Well it’s good to see your mood has improved,” he says, biting and sarcastic. “Ed, look at me.” He does, and he’s taken aback by the obvious  _ pity  _ he finds in Oswald’s expression. “Why are you this angry?”

“You told Bruce I’m  _ insecure  _ sexually-”

“I didn’t use those words but I admit I  _ may  _ have been a bit rash, and I am  _ sorry _ , but honestly, Ed, I am at my wits end and-”

“It’s a blatant,  _ hurtful _ lie-”

“Excuse me!” Oswald scoffs. “You’re telling me you’re fine when you obviously aren’t.”

Ed huffs. “I  _ am  _ fine. I’m recovering.”

“Those aren’t the same thing.” Oswald looks out the window. “I  _ told  _ him because I knew he would be  _ kind _ , Ed. Did he laugh at you? Or belittle you in any way?”

Ed’s eyes quiver, and he looks down at his knees. “He did not.”

“I’m not going to spread it around town,” he reassures Ed, “or tell anyone else, but honestly what did you expect me to do when you refuse to listen to me?”

“I’ve listened.” Ed began counting the number of times Oswald has asked if he’s fine or any similar variation; 57, since they started having sex again.

“But you don’t  _ believe  _ me, so you might as well just ignore me.” Ed looks to Oswald, and Oswald turns away from the window, looking sad or tired, Ed’s not certain which. “I told him what you told me,” Ed sucks in a breath, “that you are susceptible to his control after the conditioning,” he adds, and Ed sighs.

“I believe I was wrong. I wasn’t susceptible.” He’s had his guard down numerous times, and a few nights ago around two, already half the night wasted because of insomnia, he found himself standing in front of the mirror of their bathroom while a familiar voice hissed out a familiar riddle, and he was  _ fine _ . He’d returned to the bed, shaking with relief, and climbed back under the blankets to hold Oswald close until morning. “It might have been a reaction to pain medication.”

Oswald shakes his head, but he doesn’t say anything about Ed’s theory. “Bruce gave me this,” he says, holding out a note card, which Ed takes.

“What is it?”

“Research. He’ll call you later with the details.”

He pockets the note card and turns to watch Oswald fully, who’s returned his focus towards starting out the window. Ed taps Oswald’s hand, but he doesn’t acknowledge him. Ed scoots across the back seat and leans on him, tipping his head against Oswald’s.

“I’m alright,” he says. ‘I’m fine’ is starting to feel overused.

“I’m convinced you think I’m lying to you.”

“I believe overreacting might be more accurate.” Oswald snorts with laughter. “Why is that funny?”

“I’m sure you’ll understand in hindsight,” he tells Ed.

Neither of them says anything else on the ride home.

-

“Research log, March 27th,” Ed releases the record button for a moment to collect his thoughts, then presses to continue, “priority one continues to be hypnotism related research, requested by Bruce. Today's’ research focuses on collecting source material, preferably non-electronic media.”

He makes a few careful notes in his steno pad before continuing. “Additionally, I have taken it upon myself to research the drug used to heighten our senses. Current information includes a small trace detected in my blood sample following my rescue, and its apparent effects to the sensory nervous system. Following successful identification, I will research how it is made and how it works.”

Ed taps his pen on the note pad. He has a quote scribbled in the margins, an old Shakespeare quote about parents:  _ The voice of parents is the voice of gods, for to their children they are heaven's lieutenants _ . He’d woken up last night with it stuck in his head, and confirmed the source this morning.

He’d fallen asleep at his desk at Enigma Services. Oswald wasn’t terribly pleased, but relieved when Ed called to let him know. It’s not exactly the first time this has happened. It’s why he bothered to keep a bed here.

“Third item relates to Bruce’s efforts to aid Freeze in an attempt to synthesize a cure for his wife’s illness. Notably, this appears to only be a treatment, but the progress is a rather sweet treat, metaphorically speaking.” He licks his lips. “I will obtain copies of the research and trials to determine the drug’s usefulness.”

“Commissioner Gordon has given me several cold cases to familiarize myself with and potentially brainstorm new leads for his detectives.” His phone starts ringing. “And it appears he is calling me.”

Ed sets down his recorder and picks up his cell phone, flipping it open and greeting Jim with a curt, “hello Commissioner.”

“Ed, listen,” He sounds stressed, “we’re starting first quarter audits and I need you to return any files you’ve uh, ‘borrowed’ from the GCPD.”

“You requested that I work on your cold cases. I  _ need  _ the files in order to complete that work.”

“I know that Ed but you need to actually  _ sign out  _ the files from records. I can’t have this many records missing from the logs.”

“But Jim-”

“My hands are tied here, Ed. Just please bring them by my office today.”

He hangs up, and Ed side-eyes his file bag, which is still half full of GCPD files and the list in front of him, neatly bulleted in the middle of his steno pad, of  _ more  _ files he was intending to read.

“Damn,” he hisses. He grabs his recorder. “Additional, urgent tasks, copy any relegant files and return the originals to Commissioner Gordon.” He hits the speed dial on his phone for Gabe. “Also, if time permits, research mechanics, and determine if someone in Gotham can install reversed pedals in a vehicle.”

-

Gabe drops Ed off at the main branch of the Gotham public library and Ed  _ books  _ it up to the front doors and slips inside, making his way upstairs to sections 590-620, non-fiction books about psychology, hoping to narrow the field to hypnotic suggestion once he begins pulling books off the shelf. He has one hour before Gabe will return, and forty minutes to properly search for his research materials.

Ed non-discriminately pulls books off the shelf and carries an armful over to a table, leaving them in a neat stack before going back to the shelf and grabbing another armful. Then he sits at the table, slipping off his backpack and setting it on the floor beside his cane and pulling out his notes.

He spends twenty minutes with these stacks, thinning out older editions and scrawling down publication dates, favoring new editions for this trip (unless the only change dealt with useless forewards being added to a perfectly useable book) and slips four large volumes into his bag along with a couple smaller, more specialized books, plus the next book in a detective series he’s been enjoying.

“A note,” he whispers into his recorder. “I am removing seven books from the library collection-”

“Hey dingus,”  _ he  _ says, loudly, and Ed looks over at a small reflective case holding some antique reference books, and  _ he’s  _ there, shaking his head at Ed, disappointed. “How do you think you’re getting those out of here without a library card?”

He scowls. “It’s taken care of,” he hisses. Then he notices the student that stopped at his table to start. Ed holds up his recorder, smiles, and whispers to her, “notes.”

She rolls her eyes and walks away, muttering ‘freak’ under her breath, and Ed glares at her.

“She has a point you know,” he laughs at Ed.

“Shut up!” he nearly shouts. Ed manages to drop his volume, but he still calls unwanted attention to himself. He mutters an apology to the few students that heard him and grabs his backpack and cane before stumbling his way to a bathroom in an unused area of the second floor.

Ed pulls off his glasses and washes his face with cool water, ruffling his hair nervously before looking at the mirror to face him head on. He has the green suit today, and glasses. Ed’s glasses. He keeps his off to maintain some physical dissonance.

“You kind of freaked out out there.” He’s grinning.

“I reacted to  _ you _ .” His watch beeps and he swears. “I’m out of time.”

“Oh, here’s an idea, why don’t you just top wasting everyone's  _ time  _ with this whole private detective schtick you’re doing. No detective, no research, no books in that bag to get you in trouble. Problem solved.”

“I already said it’s handled,” he mutters as he pulls his wire kit out of his backpack. “You’re just trying to distract me.”

“Ooh, you didn’t say you brought your little kit. How cute. What’s the plan? Fake bomb?  _ Real  _ bomb? I vote for that one.”

“I'm faking a power surge,” he says as he pulls out a pair of wire cutters and his EMP.

“Wow, you really are no fun anymore. Can’t imagine what Oswald keeps you around.” Ed glares at the mirror as he slides on his glasses. “Oh, right. It’s because you fuck him, or isn’t it the other way around these days? Bet you  _ love  _ that huh?” He laughs. “Can’t think of any other reason.”

“He loves me,” Ed tells the mirror. “And  _ I  _ love  _ him _ .”

“Got a funny way of showing it, since you haven’t told him about me.” He smirks. “Better be careful. I’m a homewrecker.”

Ed throws his wire cutters against the mirror. It cracks down the middle, a few smaller spider cracks spread beyond the impact point, but he’s still there, still laughing, louder and louder and Ed’s watch beeps again, ten minutes, and he blinks, and the room goes silent.

“You aren’t real,” Ed tells the room. He grips the sink and stares at his reflection. “You’re just a manifestation of something. Nothing else.”

He laughs, “yeah.” He’s leaning over on Ed in the cracked mirror, and he can almost feel the hands on his shoulders. “Man I bet you’re  _ dying  _ to know what that means.” He pats Ed’s head once in the mirror, diminutive. “Running low on time buddy. Better hurry up.”

“Crud.” Ed shakes his head and recollects his things. He glances at his watch, five minutes. “Double crud.”

There’s no helping the bathroom. Ed pulls out his recorder and adds, “have Oswald donate to the library before vandalism is reported.”

Ed slips out of the bathroom and sneaks along the outer wall until he reaches the stairwell. If he had more time he’d have taken the elevator, but it’s near the front of the building, and he has three minutes before he needs to get out of here. He told Gabe not to wait, and the last thing Ed needs is to have to wait for a cab.

Ed moves down the stairs carefully, thankful he put on both braces this morning, and bypasses the first floor door in favor of continuing down to the basement, where he finds a restricted access door. It’s unlocked; librarians are really too trusting.

He finds the fuse box right where the blueprints indicated and he follows the metal covered wire to the spot where it disappears into a wall.

“If you’re going to be boring why not just flip the switches, or is that too easy.”

“Too short term, easily remedied.” Ed pulls on a pair of gloves and begins stripping away wire coatings.

“Don’t cut that one, cut the blue one. Haven’t you watched any TV?”

“Not cutting any of them,” he mutters. “Too bad these are all single use.”

Ed briefly laments the loss of one of his custom EMPs and attaches the small device to the exposed wires. He moves a few storage containers in front of his device and begins wiping down everything, careful to wipe off the door handles before removing his gloves and shoving them into a pocket of his backpack.

On the second floor he slips back into the bathroom and tries to make himself look presentable. He’s sweating a little, nervous, and already ten minutes late. He’ll call a cab outside, and then he’ll go see Oswald.

“Gonna tell him about me?”

Ed ignores him and washes his face; he takes out a comb and neatens his hair, and takes the time to wipe down the bathroom and lock the door as he leaves. Once he’s in the main area of the nonfiction section he’s calm, and Ed pulls a random book off a shelf before sitting on a couch.

He picked up a cookbook apparently, and he shrugs before opening it up and skimming the index for fish recipes. Then, while he appears to blend in, he reaches for his cane and taps a small button on the handle, and the lights begin to surge, growing bright (he blinks, wincing) and then they go dark.

Ed sits for a few moments, just breathing, and sighs in relief when no backup power kicks on. He feigns irritation, grumbling as he sets aside his book and stands, calmly walking to the main staircase. There are a few others already exiting, and Ed hangs back, looking out the large windows at the bright, spring sun as it melts away some more of the ice and snow.

He pulls out his recorder. “Make some time to read outdoors.”

Ed slips his recorder back into his pocket and moves towards the doors. A librarian is apologizing to the patrons, and while some elderly gentleman begins complaining Ed makes his move. He walks right up to the doors, and stops just shy of the alarms.

There’s a small red light near the base, shining up at Ed from a square, black object.

“Battery backup,” he rasps. “Damn.” Ed slings his bag around to get a hat and shoves it on his head. He pulls off his glasses and hides them in a coat pocket and rushes forward into the blurry outside world, ignoring a steady binging tone as he hurries away from the main doors.

-

“Thank you for waiting,” he tells Gabe as he wipes away the smudges on his glasses.

“Looks bad if I left you there.”

“Sure,” Ed lets him lie to him. He’s feeling rather deflated after going to the trouble to cut an entire building’s power only to set off an alarm anyway.

“Where to now?” Gabe asks.

Ed puts his glasses on and leans on the door. “Oswald. I need to talk to him.”

About two things now. Gabe claps a hand on Ed’s shoulder, but when Ed looks over he doesn’t explain himself. The drive is quiet after that.

Ed dozes while they drive across town, not fully asleep but only half hearing as Gabe parks the car in their current home, a high rise Oswald built a few years ago in one of the more affluent parts of Gotham. He opens his eyes and startles when he sees a small brick two story with an attached garage, with a sprawling lawn and neighbors farther away then Ed’s ever seen in the main part of the city.

“Gabe-”

“He said it was time.”

Ed nods and opens his door, easing himself out of the car and opening the back long enough to grab his backpack. He waves to Gabe as he pulls out of the driveway before walking up the shallow steps to the front door. There’s no note, or anything out of the ordinary, so he digs out his keys and tries their most recent lock, and the door tumblers click as he turns it. Ed pushes the door open and walks inside, locking the door once he’s crossed the threshold.

It’s modest, but cozy, with a  warm theme in the living room and kitchen, the latter having plenty of counter space and a double oven. Ed moves to the second floor; he can hear Oswald down the hall while he curses someone, on the phone most likely. To his right Ed passes a bedroom and bathroom, and he takes a moment to walk into the room to his left on the way to Oswald.

It’s a library. Ed walks over to a shelf and smiles when he finds his books. Certainly not all of them, but Oswald’s taken the time to have the movers put them away properly, and Ed runs a hand over his detective novels, appreciative of the consideration. The room itself is well lit by natural light, and Oswald’s gotten him a lounge to use while he reads. Ed sets his backpack down by the chair and continues to Oswald’s supposed office.

He’s on the phone, groaning quietly and rubbing his face. He waves at Ed when he enters and mimes a mouth with his hand. Oswald is clearly bored of his phone call, and he’s looking almost distraught that it keeps going on.

“No,  _ thank you _ ,” he tells the other person, then he hangs up and puts his head down on his desk. “ _ Please _ tell me I have something on anyone from the zoning board, preferably that awful woman that runs it.”

“Well,” Ed pauses, pulling off his hat and wringing it in his hands, “one of the members failed to file her taxes on time last year.” Oswald looks up, hopeful. “However if I’m correct her mother died that year and she inherited a great deal of property. Inheritance tax is often confusing. She filed for an extension and was approved.”

Oswald puts his head back down. “Then I’m doomed.  _ None  _ of my proposed properties are approved to rezone. What good is owning half the city if no one wants you to do anything  _ new  _ with it?”

“You’re going to have to buy more property?”

“Yes, which adds another several  _ months  _ onto my timeline.” Oswald sits up and leans back in his chair. “It was so much  _ easier  _ when everyone had something to hide.”

“I could send Selina to collect some information.”

“No, it’s  _ fine _ . I’ll start speaking with my broker. I’ll get it figured out eventually.” Oswald puts on his reading glasses and picks up some papers. “I trust you found your library?”

“I did. The room is very well lit.” He’s actually rather pleased by this home. “It’s very nice, this house. Was there a problem?”

“No, but I  _ like  _ the high rise, and I’d be disappointed if we couldn’t return, so I scheduled an early move. Plus, I thought a change of pace would be good for the both of us.” He’s not saying what he means, which is ‘I think you needed a change of pace’, but that’s  _ fine _ Ed supposes.

He looks back up at Ed. “Did you need anything?”

"Ah,” Ed licks his lips, “well, yes, actually. I need the fully legal checkbook for a copier. Business related.”

“Alright.” Oswald pulls out their joint checkbook and hands it over. “I shouldn’t need Gabe for anything, but if I  _ do  _ find myself in need of a change of scenery I’ll just drive the other car.”

Ed expected some sort of resistance, an inquiry,  _ anything  _ really, and he feels panic bubbling up in his chest. He wrings the hat, and blurts out an explanation. “It’s just that Commissioner Gordon needs the files, and I need to make notes-”

“Ed,” Oswald stops him. His teeth click when his mouth closes. Oswald takes off his glasses and sets them on the desk. “If I have ever suggested to you that I don’t trust your judgement I apologize, but I don’t  _ need  _ to hear a justification. I trust you’re capable of knowing when you need to purchase a  _ copier  _ for Christ's sake.”

Ed nods, shakily taking in a breath. “I know.”

He can practically  _ feel  _ the question Oswald wants to ask, but instead he says, “if it’s because you want to  _ bitch  _ about something feel free to explain. Contrary to the amicable phone call you must’ve overheard I’m actually quite miffed, and I’m in a mood to complain. I’m sure whatever is bothering you is something I’ll agree with.”

Ed nods, relieved. “Jim Gordon called me this morning. It seems our  _ friends  _ at the GCPD are doing an audit, and he needs me to return my files.”

“The same files he’s asked you to review  _ for  _ him, I assume?” Ed nods. “Well, I can see why you need the copier. I can’t imagine reviewing files is easy when they’re not in front of you.”

“It isn’t.” Even with an eidetic memory, and he can’t write notes in his mind. “I’ll also need a shredder.”

“They  _ are  _ rather useful, in more ways that one.” Oswald agrees, then he stands and beckons him over, which Ed complies to immediately. “You look exhausted,” he comments as he pulls Ed down into a hug, Ed’s chin firmly settled on Oswald’s collar bone.

“I may have fallen asleep on the drive here,” he admits. And he takes a breath to steady himself, breathing in Oswald’s cologne, mentally preparing to admit to his mistakes from earlier. “You’re going to have to donate to the library soon.”

“Mild, moderate, or severe damage?”

“Mild, or, perhaps moderate, but I’ll return the books when I’m finished with them.”

“Well, I’m sure they won’t mind a little extra cash coming their way in the meantime,” he pats Ed’s back reassuringly, tone suggesting mild amusement, possibly fondness. “They’re government funded after all, and I can’t imagine it pays for everything.”

_ Certainly not vandalism repair _ , he thinks.

“Well, in any case I’m sure you can’t have messed up the library too badly if I haven’t gotten a call from Jim.” Oswald rocks him a little, just side to side. Ed would bother to feel embarrassed if it wasn’t helping him feel calm.

Why isn’t he calm?

Library, right. And  _ him _ .

“I’m a homewrecker,” he says, or maybe Ed just remembers it that clearly. Oswald grunts in surprise, shushing him. It’s odd, but somewhat pleasant. He hugs Oswald a bit tighter.

“You should stay for a little while. I have personally tested the bed and can safely say it’s very comfortable if you want to take a nap. Unless you’re really that busy.”

“I am,” he rasps. His throat feels dry. “I’ll need to make the copies before I go to Jim today.” And he’s already had to push back reading the trials to get back a few hours for the copier detour.

“Didn’t Gabe leave?”

“He knows I’m planning to call,” Ed assures him.

“Yes, of course, but I’m sure you could spare a half hour so the man can get himself a decent lunch.” Oswald kisses Ed’s neck, explaining exactly  _ what  _ he intends to do with that half hour, and Ed sucks in a breath when he kisses him again. “But I won’t make you.”

A nap? No, out of the question. He’ll either spend the entire time tossing and turning from nervous energy because he’s wasting time, or he’ll manage to fall asleep and it’s all he’ll accomplish for the rest of the day.

But sex? Yes, he can get behind this. He could definitely benefit from a rush of endorphins and muscle relaxation. He kisses Oswald, and puts their foreheads together. “Where?”

“How about right here,” Oswald says it against his mouth, finishing with another kiss. Ed glances at Oswald’s desk to his right, then back to Oswald’s face. “Hmm?”

“I’ll be right back,” he mumbles, kissing him once more before hightailing it out of the room and down the hall to the bathroom. He hears a muffled “some day you’ll let me-” and the rest is lost after he shuts the bathroom door.

_ Maybe _ , he thinks, flushing at the thought. He’s never let someone do  _ that  _ for him. Ed turns on the shower, silently marveling at the intricate tile pattern and rainfall shower, but only for a moment, because Oswald is waiting. He starts removing his clothes, quickly, fumbling over buttons, and the chuckle he hears isn’t a shock but it is disappointing. Ed pauses to look in the mirror.

“What did I tell you,” he laughs, clapping his hands slowly. “And you  _ are  _ eager to jump right in aren’t you?”

Ed pulls off his shirt and undoes his pants. He’s ignoring him; it’s not worth the energy to fight when Ed knows he  _ wants  _ this. He sits on the closed toilet lid long enough to remove all but his underwear, then stands to remove those as well before stepping in under the warm stream.

-

Afterwards, he showers with Oswald, who is a  _ saint _ by the way, because he gave Gabe specific instructions to purchase the copier and shredder without Ed, leaving him at least an hour to bathe and then doze on top of their sheets, plus some time to enjoy a sandwich for lunch. A definite bonus considering he neglected to eat breakfast.

Oswald fusses over his shirt collar, making it lie straight before allowing Ed to pull on a cardigan. “You could always have Gabe make copies  _ for  _ you.”

“I need to organize them,” Ed counters. “Zsasz knows my system better than Gabe. If he was at the office I would.”

“Well, petition James for work release.” He moves a lock of Ed’s hair off his forehead. “There’s also a second bedroom in the basement if you want to break him out.”

“I’ll do my best.” Ed kisses him and turns to the door when he hears a honk. “See you at dinner.”

-

Gabe drops Ed off at the back entrance to Jim’s building, and Ed considers his options. The front door is out; he’s recognizable, and still technically wanted, so the less people see of his face the better.

The back door, while not impossible, is not ideal, because it leads to the back lot where several employees park. And it’s possible the door has added an alarm system, based on the covered wires leading to a card swipe. Ed doesn’t have his tools, and kiting someone in is impractical and potentially risky.

The building has an old fire escape, one that relies on ladders to reach each landing, and while Ed hasn’t actually tried to climb a ladder he’s fairly certain the motion isn’t one his leg is in favor of. However, time is precious, and he shouldn’t stay out in the open like this. He moves to the alley and looks up to the third floor, Jim’s office.

Ed’s a capable human being. He’s been physically fit since his thirties, and he’s confident he can still essentially do a pull up. He puts his file bag across his chest and glasses tucked away in a front pocket of his bag, and with everything secure he uses his cane to pull the first ladder down until it locks in place and places his left foot on the rung before hoisting himself up onto the ladder.

His progress is slow but methodical, careful to not put any weight on his bad leg as he alternates between using his left leg to push up and bicep curls to pull h im up the next rung. He’s tired, but nearly giddy as he clears the third ladder and steps onto the landing, holding the railing to support his leg and give him time to catch his breath.

He looks inside and sees Jim at his desk, drinking from a mug and chatting on the phone, laughing about something. Ed uses the handle of his cane to tap on the window, and Jim looks over, motioning him inside with a hand. Ed pulls the window up and the rush of warm air feels almost unpleasant after climbing the ladders. He pulls off his hat before resting his bad leg on the sill and pulling himself through, having to hold himself upright using his cane and a nearby chair until his left leg is on the floor. He stands and mops up his brow using the hat, then he gets his glasses, and finally shuts the window.

“Yeah, no, I already knew.” Jim nods. “Yep, old college buddy. You understand.” He sits back and drink more coffee (based on the smell). “Thank you for the concern. Have a good afternoon.”

Jim hangs up and his smile vanishes. He looks at Ed, and aborts starting a conversation twice before he asks, “why?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I have gotten three calls from people, asking if I knew about someone climbing my fire escape. I told them yes, because I had a strong feeling that it would be you.”

“I see.” Ed pushes his glasses up. Nervous habit.

“It took you twenty minutes, did you know that?”

Ed shakes his head. “I didn’t set a timer.”

“Well, I  _ do  _ know that, because the first call I got was twenty minutes ago.” Jim rubs his eyes. “Ed why didn’t you use a  _ door _ ?”

“I’m still technically wanted by the police.”

“Then why didn’t you just  _ call  _ me?” Jim is staring at him, incredulous. “I have my cell phone.  _ You  _ have my number. What made you think the ladders were the best option? It’s the middle of the damn day, Ed. Christ.” He pinches his nose. Ed bites his lip, braking for the impact of an insult, or some sort of name. “Just, please, do me a favor next time and just give me a call. We can get lunch or something. And sit down. You look like you’re going to pass out.”

_ Oh _ .

Ed nods, and drags an armchair to the opposite side of Jim’s desk. He pulls off his file bag before dropping into it and sighing. “I have the files.”

“I figured.” Jim gets up and pours himself more coffee from a private kettle, and Ed sees him pour a second mug. “Here,” Jim hands him the mug. “You look tired.”

“People keep saying that,” Ed says into his mug. Warm beverages don’t sound terribly palatable right now, but he wants the caffeine. To compensate he removes his coat. He’d remove the sweater too but he’s worried about pit stains after that climb. He takes a drink, and ends up finishing half the cup all at once.

“People are observant.”

“Not really,” Ed counters, and Jim shrugs. “There are studies that suggest-”

“Ed, please, I’m pretty busy today.” He gestures to Ed’s bag on the floor. “Are those the files?”

“Yes,” Ed’s eyes narrow, but he sets his coffee on the floor and picks up his bag.

“Good. We’re missing twenty files so far,” he groans.

“Ed freezes mid-bag opening. “I have sixteen.”

“Great.” Jim rubs his face. “That means some of them are actually lost.”

“The file room is atrocious.”

“Tell me about it,” Jim mutters, “or better yet, agree to help overhaul it and I’ll expedite working on your exoneration paperwork.”

“Oh,” Ed picks up his mug and takes a drink to hide his smile. “That would be rather thoughtful.”

“Going to take one hell of a miracle to not have to resign if I get that to pass,” Jim says sadly. “And it’s a lot of filing. Do you know the real menace to Gotham? Paperwork.”

Ed actually  _ enjoys  _ paperwork but he supposes the comment wasn't meant to imply anything other than Jim hates paperwork. “When does the file room need sorted?”

“Ideally, before the end of the month.” Ed sets down the mug and pulls out his steno pad and jots down ‘sort files’ above the rest of his tasks. “You really don’t have to.”

“I  _ want  _ to.” He has been for twenty years. “Having it sorted will make finding the files I need easier.” Ed pulls out the files from his bag. “On that note, when will I be able to get more files? I have a list.”

“About that.” Jim gestures for Ed to set down the stack, which he does. “You can’t just take more files.”

Ed feels his lips twitch. “You asked me to review your cold cases.”

“I did, and I still want you to do that, but you can’t just  _ take  _ them anymore. They need to be signed out from records.”

“But I can’t  _ do  _ that,” Ed’s face heats up, and his breathing is loud in his ears, furious. “You’re asking me to do the impossible.”

“Look, I want your help, but I still need to do  _ my  _ job, because if I  _ don’t  _ then we’re both out of a job. This has to be done by the book or not at all.”

“Fine,” Ed growls. He stands, upending his coffee in the process, nearly half a cup spilling out and seeping into the carpet. “I can see you don’t  _ actually  _ have the nerve to tell me I’m no longer helping you. I’ll see myself out.”

“Ed, don’t,” Jim sighs, “Don’t  _ do  _ that to yourself.”

“What.”

“Don’t try to make yourself a martyr. And don’t act like you need to leap off the goddamned building just because I made things a little complicated.” Jim stands and walks around the desk, picking up the mug and setting it on his desk. “I’m not telling you no; I’m telling you how to do things  _ right _ . Once you’re approved by the city you’re free to sign files out, but until then I’ll put them in my name. Let me see your list.”

Jim holds out a hand, one eyebrow cocked impatiently, and Ed rustles around in his nearly empty bag until he finds his steno pad. He hands Jim the list, and Jim sits down at his desk with it, writing the files numbers down as he goes. “This is a lot of files.”

“I might have found some common threads.”

“That’s good,” Jim tears his paper free from his notepad and picks up his phone. “Hey, it’s Jim. No, yeah, I found some files. Are you on the next cabinet yet? You found  _ more _ ?” Jim rubs his face. “No, we’ll get this ironed out. I might have found some overnight help.”

Ed feels a bit awkward still standing, and he feels sort of bad for staining the carpet. He drums his fingers on his bag and scans Jim’s office, glancing over his law books and his chalk and board boards before focusing on the couch with a coffee table in front of it. Ed walks over, leans his cane against the couch arm, and begins spreading out his supplies.

“None of the files can leave the building, and I’m sure I don’t have to tell you to not write on them directly.” He hands Ed his list. “A couple of the requests are missing, but they’re on their way up.”

“Thank you.” He sets the list on the right half of the coffee table, near his pens. “I suppose I should verify I won’t be intruding if I read them in here.”

“Nah,” Jim says as he walks back to his desk. “Maybe company will get me to actually survive doing all of this paperwork for the audit. Every damn time a file goes missing I have to fill out a two page form. It’s maddening.”

“I suppose  _ finding  _ the files would alleviate some of that.”

“The paperwork for it being misfiled is only one page. At this point I’ll take it.” Jim sits and stares up at the ceiling for a few seconds. “Maybe I’ll go back to being a private detective. If you want this job it’s yours.”

Ed smiles, supposing that was mostly a joke, but part of Jim genuinely does look miserable having his desk drowning in papers. “I’ll begin drafting a speech to announce my intentions.”

Shortly after Jim puts in the request an intern runs up two boxes of files, being sure to meet them at the door and block Ed from their line of sight. With the new files he can start filling out his theories, and Ed opens up the top box and selects out a file, flipping it open and grabbing a pen to make notes.

He finds himself drooping after the third file, and settles back against the back of the couch, the fourth one open on his lap. He’ll add notes once he’s at a proper desk, the uncomfortable stoop necessary to write was giving him a neck ache. It isn’t too inconvenient, considering he can make the mental notes now and add them to his physical notes later.

Ed’s leg starts cramping a little, a delayed side effect of the climb no doubt, and he moves to sit with it stretched across the cushions, leaning against the arm. It’s terribly warm in Jim’s office, likely because of the floor he’s on, and the couch is comfortable. His eyes droop, blinking slow, and he rubs them, shoving up his glasses and shaking his head a little to wake himself up.

_ I need to review these _ , he thinks.  _ Focus _ .

He blinks his eyes open when someone starts pulling off his glasses, and watches them move above his head and onto the couch arm. Then the blurry figure of Jim tosses a folded blanket onto Ed’s chest, and he mumbles something as he attempts to unfold it, before giving up once it’s undone enough to cover his whole chest. He shifts onto his side and buries his face into a pillow.

-

Awareness hits him before the motivation to open his eyes, and he shifts his cheek, feeling a warm, solid mass under his head where the pillow once was, and Ed is partway through planning a very courteous monologue about appreciating Jim’s effort to provide him comfort but that this ship has long since sailed, when a hand begins carding through his hair, and Ed blinks awake, noting the familiar head of a familiar cane. He twists his upper body a bit so he can see Oswald properly.

“Good morning,” he says, watching Oswald smile.

“It’s dinner time, actually. Jim texted me of all things, telling me you’d fallen asleep here, and when I demanded proof he sent me a photo, which I am  _ keeping _ , by the way.” He carefully slides Ed’s glasses onto his face, and the smile Ed was looking forward to seeing without the blurred edges is gone; instead he sees concern at the edges of Oswald’s eyes and the downturn of his lips. “Are you not sleeping well?”

“I slept fine.” Oswald grunts, irritated, but it’s the truth. He feels rather well rested, actually. “I’m going to be late for dinner.”

“Oh  _ are  _ you? This wouldn’t have anything to do with the records room would it?” Oswald smoothes Ed’s hair back off his forehead.

“Perhaps.”

“I got some coffee,” Ed hears Jim as he enters the room, cups of coffee from one of the nearby cafes in a tray and a paper bag in the other. “Sleeping beauty finally awake?”

“It seems so,” Oswald tells Jim. “And now that he is, I’d like to know  _ why  _ you’ve volunteered yourself to sort out Jim’s mess.”

“Helping him helps me.” Ed tells Oswald, suggesting that possibly that’s the only reason, but also, he knows Jim is  _ trying  _ to help, even if it’s somewhat inconvenient help at best.

“Great, glad I’m asking you both for help to keep this city safe.” Jim shakes his head and hands Oswald a cup, then hands one to Ed once he’s sat up. “Hope you’re in for a long night Ed.”

He is, now that he’s slept, and the addition of coffee helps. “How long will reorganization take?”

“Day or two, or maybe a year,” Jim sighs to himself. “Or maybe never. Who really knows.” He sets the bag down on the coffee table, carefully avoiding Ed’s piles of folders and notes. “I brought takeout. Thanks for buying Oswald.”

“I do what I can to help,” Oswald says. “And I am more than happy to continue to provide the two of you with all the moral support you need.”

Jim snorts, and Ed hides his smile behind a drink of coffee.

-

“This  _ is  _ quite the disaster,” Ed says to no one in particular as he slowly walks through the aisles of the records room. Admittedly, the last time it was ever truly in order was around twenty years ago, and a lot of crime has certainly happened in those twenty years. Also, he’s already found at least one folder wedged in between two filing cabinets, and there are several boxes of unsorted files sitting on top of the cabinets they supposedly belong to.

“Tell me about it,” Jim mutters, “but don’t, actually. I already know.”

“It’s going to need a complete overhaul.” Ed idly chews on the end of his thumbnail. “Do you have any carts?”

He begins a thorough reorganization of the room, first by emptying one of the cabinets onto a card and handing Oswald a pen and a large packet of file identification numbers, which he scowls at but takes and begins, one by one, marking down the files that are present. “If you find any of these please tell me.” He hands Oswald the note Jim made earlier. “I’d like to keep them separate so I can read them.”

“Remind me again why we’re helping with  _ filing _ ?”

Because Ed would like it very much if he was no longer a wanted man, and possibly, if he could request Jim extent the favor to Oswald. “We’re helping Jim.”

“I sincerely hope you mean we’re garnering favors from Jim for doing this thankless task.”

“That’s also possible.” Even if Ed has technically used them up. He kisses Oswald. “Thank you. Your help is appreciated.”

“You owe me,” Oswald tells him. “Twice, actually, because I already found one of your files.”

Ed smiles. He takes the file out of Oswald’s outstretched hands and shakes his head. “Can you imagine filing everything by  _ date _ ? It’s terribly inefficient.”

“I’m sure whatever system you implement will aid Gotham’s finest. Your organizational systems have never let me down.”

Ed smiles.

“If you two are done flirting,” Jim says as he walks by with another cart, “I’d like to get done with this before I retire.”

“Why Jim you’re the picture of youth,” Oswald gushes. “And so  _ handsome _ , wouldn’t you agree Ed?”

“Definitely.” He smirks at Oswald, and Jim pushes past the two of them, muttering under his breath. “I’m going to make labels.”

“Have fun.” Oswald makes a face at him and picks up his next file.

Ed continues to gut the records room, moving everything into the hallway and creating tall stacks of boxes, unsorted until he can begin properly formulating a plan for his new system.

First, solved versus unsolved. It’s a simple yes or no, one Oswald has already been implementing per his request. Easily implemented.

Second, by date. He hates to give the records room any credit, but unsolved cases older than ten years are, quite probably, going to end up on Ed’s desk. Secretly, he creates a label indicating the back two filing cabinets in the room as “Direct Inquiries to Enigma Investigative Services” to save everyone a little time.

“Ed,” Jim comes up behind him and uses a warning tone, “don’t do that.”

“I’m just saving time Commissioner.”

“Take it off.” He glares at Ed until he rips off both labels, scowling. “Stick with the cases I gave you. The families are still hoping for answers.”

“Fine,” he mutters. Ed switches the labels to read “cold cases, pre-1950 and pre-1960” and leaves them at that.

Third, and his personal favorite, alphabetical by last name. There’s something very satisfying about organizing this way, and he finds himself up beside Oswald, chatting comfortably while Oswald checks off files and Ed sorts them into boxes so they can be put into cabinets later.

“Oh, now  _ here’s  _ a file I recognize,” Oswald says fondly as he hands over a file for one of his old underlings. “It  _ is  _ satisfying to hear they’re all going down in flames while I drink my morning coffee.”

“We could always get copies of these for old time’s sake,” Ed offers. Maybe he’ll try out scrapbooking, or possibly saving them similar to the way people save newspaper clippings.

“Maybe someday,” Oswald sighs wistfully as he hands Ed a file. “This is also on your list.”

That makes four, and Ed thanks Oswald as he adds it to the pile. “I think I’m going to read these quickly to see if they’re ones I’ll truly need.”

“Suit yourself,” Oswald says as he tosses aside his pen and gets up out of his chair. “I’m going to go get some coffee.”

“Black, two sugars,” Ed calls after him, and Oswald waves his hand in Ed’s direction, a confirmation no doubt. Ed claims Oswald’s seat and flips open the first file.

Missing person. Unknown circumstances. No ransoms or notes. Ed flips through the few pages in the file, humming to himself as he focuses on each page so he can recall them later.

“Coffee break,” Jim mutters as he walks past Ed and out the door. Ed nods to him and checks his watch for a moment. It’s nearly eleven.

“You know from here this looks like a demotion.”

Ed scowls and looks up at the desk to a small hand mirror. At the edges just beyond his face he can see him, green suit shiny in the harsh lights. “It’s an important step for my business.”

“Right, that little Sherlock Holmes roleplay you’re so into.” He laughs. “You’re not near as brilliant as him. Sorry to burst your bubble.”

“He’s fictional.”

“Yeah, and you’re still the dumb one.” He leans in closer. “Noticed anything good about all those cases yet? Any links? Because I did.”

“Impossible, considering you aren’t real,” Ed hisses. He turns back to the files and flips open the second. He flips through the pages of a murder case from before he was born. “And I already know there are links in some of the files.  _ I  _ requested them.”

“Well you just haven’t found the best link yet,” he whispers, phantomly but somehow oh so close to his ear, and Ed shivers.

He blinks a few times and shakes his head, clearing out the residual unnerving tug in his chest. Ed rubs his eyes and gets back to the files.

Then, there, he sees a link. A single, loopy signature at the bottom of the first page. Oh, he had no idea  _ she  _ would still hold influence over his future but Ed smiles, giddy, and grabs the next folder, flipping it to the same page and bam, right at the bottom, right where he expected it.

“Oh Jim is going to  _ love  _ this.”

“Love what?” Jim asks as he walks in carrying two coffees, Oswald right behind him with his own cup. “You doing alright Ed?”

“I found a link,” he says, grinning. “It was so obvious. I can’t imagine how I missed it this whole time.”

“Wonderful, but you’re in my seat Ed,” Oswald tells him as he hands him a cup of coffee. “If you don’t mind.”

Ed jumps up, takes a drink of the coffee even though it’s scalding, and sets it aside. “Detective, er, Commissioner-Jim-”

“Ed-”

“I need to see more files,” Ed says, quickly, and he rushes off, cane clicking as he walks down the main aisle to the second row of cabinets. He opens a cabinet and drags a file out, and flips to the correct page. “See, right here!”

Jim looks to Oswald, and back to Ed. He laughs, of course he can’t  _ see _ . It’s too far away. Ed crosses the room and holds it up. “It’s K. Kringle,” he beams. “I can’t believe I didn’t see this before.”

“Ed maybe you should sit-” Oswald tells him, but Ed backpedals a step out of reach.

“Oswald, Jim, this is the break in the case I’ve been waiting for! K. Kringle!”

Ed watches the two of them as they look at one another, then back to Ed. “Right, of course, see on all of those incomplete files? K. Kringle. It’s  _ everywhere _ .”

He shakes his head when they  _ still don’t get it _ , and moves to the desk, grabbing the files Oswald’s found from his list. “It’s in  _ all  _ of these,” he insists. “K. Kringle! K. Kringle! See, you just need to  _ look  _ and you’ll see it!” He holds the files out towards Jim. “See? Just look, and you’ll see it.”

“Is he okay?” Jim asks Oswald.

“Ed, come here for a second won’t you?” Oswald asks him, holding out a hand.

“You need to  _ look _ , Oswald. It’s all here. K. Kringle is signed on every file.”

“Ed she was the records keeper,” Jim tells him. He looks at Jim, blinking. “She  _ had  _ to sign files before they get put into this room.”

“You’re not seeing it,” Ed insists. “K. Kringle-”

“Kristen isn’t a link, Ed,” Jim nearly shouts, his face is turning red,  _ angry _ , and Ed flinches. “She was just the records keeper, Ed,” he says, more calm, “and she had to sign. That’s it. There’s no link.”

“But,” Ed holds out his files, “but it’s a  _ link _ -”

“Oh man do you sound crazy.” Ed turns left and right, looking for a reflective surface; he finds him in the glass door for the records room. “And boy do you look it.”

He sees the fear, the way his face is pale and blotchy, Ed is abruptly, painfully aware of his own heartbeat, his breathing, the way they’re both constricting his throat and blurring his vision. He turns, throwing the files to the floor, and stumbles away from them, from their scared expressions and cries of worry, and moves into the far back of the records room, sobbing, choking on spit and  _ emotions  _ of all things, and sliding down the wall, pulling in his legs and dropping his cane.

He hides his face, pulls at his hair, and whines. No, no this isn’t how it was supposed to  _ go _ . He found a  _ breakthrough _ . He’s fine. He’s  _ fine _ . He, he, he hears someone; Ed looks up as Oswald walks to him, calmly, and eases himself down beside Ed, one hand already reaching out to touch his shoulder, to smooth back his hair, and Ed sobs, tears spilling over, and he hides his face against Oswald’s shoulder, letting Oswald pull him close and hold him, letting him ground him, and Ed tries not to drown as everything he’s been stamping down deep comes out all at once.

-

“Personal agenda, additional tasks to complete alongside my actual duties,” Ed tells his recorder. He pauses, licks his lips with worry, and tests out a phrase, just for himself. “I am… not fine.”

Ed feels equal surges of guilt and relief, and he blinks tears before they fully form. “I am hearing myself, or, a version of myself that I’d rather not give weight by naming it. Noteworthy, it appears to never be anyone else, only myself, although  _ he  _ is almost always in my old suit.”

Ed writes in a smaller spiral notepad as he talks. “I have two tasks regarding this development.” He’s not comfortable labeling it just yet, this  _ development  _ he’s trying to figure out. “First, I must tell Oswald, and possibly Bruce.”

Ed blinks, and sets down his pen. “Second, I believe this has a direct link to Strange and his goings-on. He’s done something to me.” Ed looks down at his desk, at the papers scattered across it with scary words like symptoms and therapy and numerous other printouts he made in the middle of the night. “I may need,” he pauses, “help, in determining what exactly he’s done.” Ed rubs a hand over his mouth. “Regardless of how, I need to determine  _ what  _ he’s done before I can make efforts to reverse it.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” Bruce says as he takes a seat in Victor Fries’ hideout. He’s rasping his voice; he’d nearly forgotten that Victor is not actually aware of his identity. “I have some information that I’m sure you’ll find interesting.”

Victor is wearing his goggles today, but no suit, instead choosing to leave it aside. A sign of peace, Bruce hopes, or possibly Bruce managed to catch him off guard and he didn’t have time to put it on. Either way, his body language is languid and loose, accepting of Bruce’s presence while still being wary.  He’s been pacing a bit, watching Bruce out of the corner of his eye (in theory at least, given the goggles) and refusing to engage in conversation, leaving Bruce to continue unprompted.

“As you’re aware, there are several companies researching your wife’s illness,” Bruce tells him, breath condensing in the hyperchilled air. “Nora’s illness.”

“Yes,” Victor hazards. His movement jerks for a moment, and he comes over to sit across from Bruce, watching behind red plastic and a palpable layer of distrust.

“Recently one of the companies sent me a sample of a treatment they’ve developed.” He pulls the half full pill bottle out of a pocket on his belt and sets it on the table in front of him.

“It’s not a cure,” Victor says, staring at the bottle, hands twitching as if he wants to grab it, but he makes no move to pull it closer.

“No, it’s not. And I know our agreement was a cure, but I wanted to keep you updated on any progress.” Bruce slides the pills a bit closer. “In the interest of protecting the company I’ve removed their name from the label, but the compound is still there, and the dosage.”

“It’s only a treatment,” Victor says again, disbelieving, maybe even hoping.

“Victor, you’ve been searching for her cure for nearly twenty years now.” Bruce tells him, but gently. He knows this is difficult. “And I know that one day, you will have it, but I am giving this to you because you have a difficult decision to make. You can continue to search either way, but you can leave her frozen, or wake her back up and allow her to take the treatment.”

“If I unfreeze her she will die,” he tells Bruce, beseeching, trying to get Bruce to understand, and he does, maybe more than most, how it feels to desperately want something, and how hard compromise can be.

“If you unfreeze her, she will die, yes,” Bruce nods. “But it’s my understanding that this treatment has the potential to give her life a longevity unheard of for people with her illness. This treatment may add five, possibly ten years to her life if it’s able to reverse any of the damage. I know that isn’t long, and I know how much easier it is to tell yourself to wait.”

“Ten years?” Freeze shies back from the pills. “I can’t.”

“This isn’t a decision you should make in a moment. Give yourself some time to think about your options Victor.” Bruce picks up the pill bottle and pulls Victor’s hand closer and sets the bottle in his palm. Victor closes his hand around the bottle and pulls it closer to himself, turning the bottle over in his hands. “I confess that I haven’t done any of my own testing on the pills, and I need to read the trials and paper before I would condone you unfreezing Nora, but I want you to be able to reassure yourself, so I’ve given you some of the sample.”

Victor doesn’t say anything, just turns the bottle over and over in his hands.

“Victor, if this treatment works, you’ll get to speak to Nora, to see her living, maybe even  _ thriving _ .” Victor looks back up at him, face wan and distressed, conflicted maybe, certainly afraid. “Nothing is going to happen tonight. Both of us need to do our research, and you have plenty to think about.”

“What will it have been for, Batman?” Victor asks. “All these years, all the struggle, just to watch her die?”

“You’ll get to watch her  _ live _ , Victor. She might not be aging, but you are. At some point we have to accept that, if you’re doing this in order to be with her, to see her happy and alive and healthy, that maybe you need to accept that you can’t do what you promised, not in your lifetime.” He sits back in his chair, watching Victor’s brow crease, at the distraught expression and downward droop of his shoulders. “You’ve dedicated everything you have to finding this cure, and I know it can be hard to turn away from that.” Victor sets the bottle back on the table and stands, walking into another room, then returning, an angry stomp in his gait and his freeze gun in his hands. “Victor I’m not going to fight with you.”

“You are not welcome here Batman,” he switches his gun on, “and I suggest you leave.”

“I’m not telling you to stop looking Victor,” Bruce says, still sitting. If need be he already has a smoke bomb ready in his left hand, and a quick exit behind him while Victor is distracted. “I’m only suggesting that, possibly, you don’t have to keep searching alone.”

He lowers the gun a fraction, breath calming, and he steps out of his fighting stance, instead almost cradling the gun in his hands. “If I wake her she will  _ die _ .”

“Everyone does, Victor. Mortality is one of the hardest things to face in this life, regardless of what Gotham has taught us to the contrary.” Bruce watches Victor set the gun aside on a nearby counter and place his hands there, facing away from Bruce.

“I can’t imagine a life without her, Batman.” He shakes his head.

“Victor, you’ve already lived a life without her.” Bruce tells him this with the knowledge that he might genuinely not see it that way. “Do you remember her face? Or her hair? The way she smiled?”

“Of course I do,” he says, but his body language is unsure. “She is my  _ wife _ . I’m doing this  _ for  _ her.”

“At your own expense. Would she agree to this if she currently had a say?” Victor doesn’t say anything. “Like I said Victor, this isn’t an easy decision, and you shouldn’t act rashly. I’m providing you with an alternative, should you decide to accept it, but again, I’m not going to force you to unfreeze her if it’s not what you want.”

Victor refuses to turn around; he uses one hand to shove up his goggles and press his fingers to his eyes. “Leave,” he says, and although it isn’t forceful Bruce is compelled to listen.

-

Outside Victor’s hideout Bruce’s communicator begins pinging in his ear, and he taps the answer button. “Alfred? I’ve finished at Victor Fries’ hideout.”

“You ran out on me to go hang out with Freeze?” Selina says, fake offended. “I see where  _ your  _ priorities are.”

“Selina. Did Ed or Oswald tell you I’d be right back?”

“Nope, those two losers left just like you did.”

“Well, I apologize. I needed to speak with Victor Fries urgently, but I’m done now.” He starts moving towards the Batmobile to begin driving home. “Did you break into my lab?”

“No, I  _ snuck  _ into your lab. Nothing’s broken. You have a lot of nice stuff down here.”

“Please don’t steal anything Selina,” he tells her, half joking half not.

“I wasn’t planning on it, but maybe now I will,” she jokes. He hopes she’s joking. “Maybe I’ll just move all your stuff around.”

He’s not sure that’s actually an improvement. “Will you be upstairs when I get home? My conversation with Victor was somewhat difficult.” Selina is quiet for a moment, and it gives time for Bruce to get into the Batmobile and start it up. “Selina?”

“Just hiding all of your coffee cups,” she tells him lightly, humming as she presumably walks around his lab. “Snowman didn’t want to cooperate?”

“It was about Nora’s potential treatment I received in the mail,” he admits. He’s been oversharing recently, at least since he’s been back from Norway. He feels the need to socialize, possibly, or maybe to share his woes, so to speak. “Do you know about Nora?”

“Sleeping Beauty? Yeah,” Selina hums. “Is he going to melt her?”

“I’m sure you meant thaw, and that’s his decision.” Bruce thinks he’s at least considering the option.

“Well, don’t let the human ice cube get you in a funk. I have to get back to work one of these days, you know. I can’t just sit around and make you feel better.”

“Are you going to leave tonight?” He presses down on the accelerator just a little bit harder.

“I’m leaving after one of Alfred’s breakfast feasts,” she says, and he sighs in relief, but quietly so she won’t hear. “But if you don’t hurry back here I’m going to hide all of your condoms. Then, I’m going to sleep right next to you, no clothes on, and you won’t be able to do a damn thing about it.”

“You’re cruel,” he tells her, knowing that even if she did hide every condom at the Manor he still has  few in his utility belt.

“I’m just making sure you don’t waste any more time because you want to hang out with Barbara or Fish or whoever else you’re hand-holding in this town.”

“I prefer to call it providing support.” He can’t make any of them try to reform, but if any of the other costumed villains approached him asking for help Bruce would offer it in a heartbeat, providing their plea was sincere.

“Call it what you want, but you should know I’m getting bored down here in the ‘Batcave’,” she says this while doing air quotes, presumably, “and I’m going back upstairs.”

“If you’re patient for one minute I’ll be arriving through the lab entrance.”

She hums. “I guess I could give you a little welcome back party,” she teases, “but don’t expect a cake.”

He double checks his belt, smiling when he finds his stash of condoms. “I’m sure whatever you’ve managed to plan will be very enjoyable.”

-

Wayne Enterprises eats up a chunk of his time over the next few days, leaving Bruce tired and struggling with his backlog of work while also aiding the GCPD at night. Needless to say he’s felt very tired this week.

Today he’s distracted, mind elsewhere while he’s supposed to be listening to a proposal for a new bulk chemical company by the pharmaceutical department, which he’s unfortunately had to mentally write off because they’ve neglected to perform an environmental impact study. And when the slide once again has nothing about it he decides to interrupt.

“What is the potential harm to Gotham’s water quality if we build?” he asks, interrupting a spiel about the building schedule. The presenter, a man Bruce can’t remember at the moment (he’s missed the opportunity to get more coffee twice already and he’s suffering a  downward trend in energy as a result, causing a bit of short term memory loss), stutters to a stop, and asks, “what was that, Mr. Wayne?”

“You neglected to mention results from an environmental impact study. I was merely asking in order to determine if you were saving it for later or if it hadn’t been completed.”

The entire conference room is silent while they wait, watching this poor, ill-prepared man start to sweat. Unlike other situations Bruce is not sympathetic to this man, and when he mops his forehead with a handkerchief and admits that, no, it hasn’t been completed, Bruce stands.

“I think we’ve wasted enough time then. Thank you all for taking the time to come here today to listen to the presentation, and I’m sorry if any of you had to reschedule to fit it in this morning. As for you,” he turns to the presenter, “be sure to brush up on Wayne Enterprise’s company policies, because all proposals with potential environmental impact have required a study for the last ten years.” There’s a pinging in his ear from his bluetooth, and he taps it, “hold please.” He mutes the call. “If you have any questions for me, anyone, I’ve been waiting for this call and need to take it first, but I will be in my office once it’s completed. Have a nice afternoon.”

Bruce power walks to the elevator and presses the button for the top floor. He moves to the back when more people enter, preferring to stay out of the way as everyone rushes in and out. Floor by floor the elevator empties, leaving just Bruce to exit once it reaches the top. He unmutes his call once he’s certain he’s alone and says, “this is Bruce. Thank you for holding.”

“Bruce, it’s Jim.”

Bruce sighs, “hello.”

“Yeah, hi,” Jim says tiredly. “Did Oswald call you this morning?”

“He did.”  _ Very  _ early this morning. “Is Ed alright?”

“No, but we kind of already knew that.”

“Right,” Bruce says as he finds a seat in one of the window sills. “What happened exactly? Oswald was very brief.”

So brief, in fact, that Bruce had almost gone to their home to make sure neither man needed anything from him. He’d only told Bruce that Ed is going to take a break from his work, and Jim would call later.

“He just kind of broke down,” Jim says, and icy dread slides down Bruce’s back. “He started insisting Kristen’s signature was this big link in all the cases, and then he just kind of broke down, crying and carrying on like that.” He’s quiet for a second or two. “Oswald called Gabe and they left. Ed was still a mess but he walked out of here on his own.”

“Do you think it has something to do with Strange, Jim?”

“Well, isn’t that kind of obvious? He did kidnap the guy; tried to get him to attack Oswald.”

They must not have told Jim about Ed’s little secret. “I’ll make an effort to go see him today, if he’s feeling up to it.”

“No guarantees when that might be.” Jim sighs, and then he groans. “I feel terrible. I'm the one that asked him to help with the records.”

“You couldn’t have known something in records would be the tipping point. If it hadn’t happened there it could have happened while he was out doing research for me, or working with potentially hazardous chemicals.” He’s certain that stopped sounding reassuring when he mentioned the chemicals, so he stops. “I’m thankful Oswald was there.”

“That makes two of us.”

Bruce looks outside for a minute, thinking. He suspects Jim is doing something similar because he doesn’t speak but he also doesn’t hang up.

So, Ed isn’t okay. It’s okay that he isn’t okay, but Bruce doesn’t know what comes next. He’s never been to therapy; he’s not trained in any way either. The things that help him won’t necessarily help Ed. Burying him in work didn’t seem to do anything but prolong the inevitable.

“If it's any consolation, Oswald told me to give him more tasks, before this at least. I think Ed wanted to keep busy.”

“It worked I guess, until last night at least,” Jim answers.

“Do you need help with anything?” Bruce doesn’t want to be at Wayne Enterprises right now. He’s not sure he wants to be away from the Manor at all but he’ll do it if it’ll help.

“I have some interns following Ed’s instructions so we can finish up the records room. If he wants to stop looking at the cold cases I might send them your way.”

“I’ll be sure to ask him first,” he sighs. “So everything is alright at the GCPD?”

“Well enough, why? Fishing for a reason to play hooky?”

“Perhaps.” Definitely, and the sooner the better.

“Meet me for coffee. I need to get some air, and we can keep talking.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Bruce stands and strides over to the elevator. “I may need to use you as an excuse so if you’re able, please stay on the line.”

“Sure Bruce.”

He gets all the way to the first floor without being stopped by anyone, but as Bruce begins walking towards the main lobby his assistant speed-walks up to him and begins talking as she matches his pace.

“Mr. Wayne,” she exclaims, “I couldn't find you in your office. Your phone has been ringing.”

“You’re new right?” He asks, and she nods. “Sorry, I forgot to tell you I often take my calls up on the top floor. It’s usually very quiet.”

“That’s no problem sir,” she says, a bit breathless. “The pharmaceutical department is just looking for some answers.”

“Sorry, I’m still actually on my call,” he says, pointing to his headset.

“But sir you’re leaving the building.”

“I’m meeting them somewhere. What questions does the department have? If they’re quick I’ll answer them while we walk.”

“Oh,” she flips through a notepad as she walks, “well, they wanted to talk to you about moving forward.”

“Have they done the environmental impact study?”

“Well no,” she answers reluctantly.

“Then that’s how they can move foreword.”

“I told them that,” she says, and Bruce makes a note to praise her for her efforts, “and they proceeded to tell me that waiting could be a costly mistake.”

“How costly?”

“They didn’t say.”

“That’s becoming an uncomfortably common trend with their department. Would you like us to stop?” He asks. “I have a long stride,” he says as he moves to the side of the lobby and stands by a wall. She looks thankful for the break. “Tell them to either complete the study per company policy or to provide a report with concrete numbers. If they’re smart they’ll start both at the same time. Thank you, by the way, for being familiar with company policy.”

“It’s my job sir.”

“She sounds like a keeper,” Jim comments, and Bruce has to agree.

“Your name is Brenda, right?” She nods. “Brenda, thank you for doing your job, and unfortunately you’ll have to tell them that I’ll be gone for at least an hour.”

-

“Bruce, you are a saint,” Jim says as he pours a cup of coffee from the pot Bruce ordered for the table. “Forget upholding justice and saving people’s lives;  _ this  _ is why you’re a hero to Gotham.”

Bruce laughs, “you said we were meeting for coffee. I figured I should order a pot.”

“You would not  _ believe  _ how much I need it right now.” Jim takes a drink and closes his eyes. “I was at the GCPD until midnight, or maybe later, who really knows. Then, the moment I got to my office this morning the records keeper comes barging into my office,  _ screaming  _ about the reorganization we’re doing without his permission. I nearly fired him. I can do that, right? Fire someone for annoying me?”

“I’d assume so,” Bruce tells him, taking a drink from his own mug. “Have you spoken with Oswald again?”

“I extended the invitation to them and he declined.” Jim shakes his head. “He did tell me Ed’s spent all day in bed. It’s barely noon but still, not a good sign.” He groans. “And Oswald is getting really  _ uppity _ , and I can’t get mad because he’s just worried and I’ll feel like an ass.”

“About what specifically is he uppity?”

“Zsasz? I’m not really sure why he’s getting worked up about him now, but I don’t think he slept at all, and it’s certainly not helping.”

“I don’t blame him.” The only reason Bruce got any sleep is because they waited to tell him until morning. “Being home doesn’t feel quite as refreshing anymore.”

“Leaving again?”

“No, but maybe they should, just for a few days. I’ll bring it up to them later.”  _ They would like the cottage in Norway _ , he thinks. “Although if they agree I might go with them.”

“I haven’t gotten to ask you how you’re doing after all this either.”

Bruce assumes that’s his way of asking now. “I don’t feel like myself sometimes, and it makes me worry. I can’t tell if I’m losing myself to Strange’s control or if I’m experiencing residual trauma.” He looks over at Jim; his eyes are sad, pitying and a little watery. “Sometimes I consider locking myself in the room Alfred had you put Zsasz in, just to see if I’m also holding anything back.”

“Are you holding things back?”

“I don’t believe so. In Norway I had my fair share of breakdowns,” he admits this freely, and he doesn’t feel ashamed. “One morning, the coffee pot wouldn’t work, and I threw it into the lake.”

And he’d sobbed openly, brokenly, but on the other side of it he felt fresh, cleansed even. He’d been holding back before then. He can admit that to himself at least.

“Your father said no psychiatrists. I remember that; I think about that a lot actually. Do you know why he said that? You don’t have to answer. It’s just on my mind with Ed like this.”

“I think,” Bruce pauses, “I’ve thought about this a lot as well. “I think he knew Arkham was,  _ is  _ unfit. I also think he wanted me to find his secret room. I might not have looked had I gone to Arkham. I might have become another Zsasz.” Bruce thinks for a moment, and his Bluetooth starts ringing while he’s quiet. He taps the button and greets the caller, “hello, this is Bruce Wayne.”

“Mr. Wayne,” Brenda sounds relieved, “I have a few people up at your office from pharmaceuticals.”

“Hold one moment,” he tells her, and Bruce folds his arms on the table and rests his forehead on them. “Jim please give me something to do that isn’t go back to work.”

“You could go check up on Zsasz,” he says, and Bruce looks up, hopeful. “He’s been belligerent, apparently. No incidents yet but he’s not happy to be back.”

Bruce takes his assistant off hold. “Tell them I’m sorry, but I need to take a personal day.”

-

In the solitary visitation room (interrogation, Bruce reminds himself. This room is used to interrogate inmates) Bruce, clad in his Batman suit, reaches up to the video camera and disconnects the feed. He feels a bit sick to his stomach knowing they don’t make a fuss because they think he’s going to rough Zsasz up, but he’s thankful for the privacy so he can undo the straitjacket they've put him in.

He’s quiet. It’s unsettling, having Zsasz be this quiet. Usually he rambles, chattering along and making jokes, and he’s lively. Now, he just looks dejected, and exhausted.

“You should tell me if they’re being genuinely abusive to any inmates, yourself included.”

Another thing, Zsasz looks very off, wearing the standard inmate stripes under the straitjacket.

“Victor I know you’re not happy about being back here, but we didn’t have any alternatives.”

“I’m going to say,  _ not  _ being here.” He nods his head. “Yeah, that sounds pretty good. Let’s go with that one.”

At least he’s talking. “Victor you and I both know why we can’t choose that option.”

“I know why we  _ technically  _ can’t-”

“We literally cannot let you go unsupervised. You are deserving of a sentence in a mental health facility because you have killed numerous people. You’ve killed for fun, and you tally them all on your skin. I can forgive the deaths that occurred during my rescue; I can understand that you were given permission to defend yourself and others, and any guilt I feel is mine alone, but you are still a murderer, Victor. You need help, and I think you understand that you aren’t going to get it here, and I regret this necessity every day but that doesn’t mean I’ll ignore it.”

Zsasz stares at him, unblinking. “Someone’s in a bad mood.”

Bruce sighs, and nods. “Ed had a breakdown last night.”

He can’t quite categorize the series of expressions that cross Zsasz’s face before settling back to neutral, but he’s not happy, that’s certain. “I’m going to go see him next.”

“Things are kind of fucked, huh.”

“It’s progress, even though it doesn’t look like it.” Zsasz grunts. “I’m being serious. He’s allowing himself to feel grief.” Bruce is quiet for a moment. “Have you?”

“Don’t know what you mean Bat kid.”

“Fine.” He can’t force anything. “Victor, I have a question, and I want you to be honest. Has Strange attempted to contact you in any way, or gain access to your cell?”

“Nope.”

“If he does in any way you need to tell us.” They don’t need another Ed situation. “This is a distress signal,” he says as he pulls a small device off his belt, “and it pages myself and Commissioner Gordon directly. Should  _ anything  _ happen and you suspect Strange is responsible press the button and we’ll do all we can.”

Zsasz mimes pressing it a few times, and Bruce doesn’t laugh but he doesn’t reprimand him either. They need to find an alternative to Arkham, one that isn’t just putting him under Ed and Oswald’s supervision, which Bruce suspects is still rather lax when it benefits them.

“If they attempt to confiscate it press it twice, and don’t fight them. Let them take it, and I’ll find a way to get you a replacement.” Zsasz looks at the device. It’s small, about the size of a large pill. “I trust you remember their search policy.” Zsasz grimaces at the device and makes an ‘are you serious’ face. “It’s waterproof.”

“There is no better way you could have said that is there. Nothing? Not even going to try?”

“Just hide it under your tongue,” Bruce tells him, sighing when Zsasz smiles and nods, because Bruce knows he wasn’t thinking that before. He rubs his temples. “I’m going to reconnect your straitjacket, and the camera. Take care, Victor. Eventually, we’ll figure out a better solution. I promise you that.”

-

Bruce parks his car in Ed and Oswald’s new driveway and takes in the modest two story, and finds himself thinking that it suits the two of them somehow. It’s unassuming, but a few odd roof angles, mismatched large windows, and the small deck above the garage give it a small flair of uniqueness, which would be unappealing to some but must have drawn the two of them in right away.

It’s quiet outside the city. Bruce knew this already considering the placement of the Manor, but here it still manages a peaceful, quiet atmosphere while still having neighbors nearby. He’s certain that doesn’t matter to the two of them, and that neither man has made any effort got to know anyone on either side of their privacy fence. They're not out here to make friends.

Bruce knocks three times and waits, leaning against the brick and mortar half wall on the front stoop and closing his eyes to block out the bright afternoon sun. Locks click open and the door swings in as Oswald opens it and beckons Bruce inside.

“Afternoon Oswald.”

Oswald’s lip quirks, maybe an attempt at a smile, but it never forms. “Bruce.”

“How are you?”

Oswald  _ does  _ smile at that, bemused. “Shouldn’t you be asking about Ed? I know you’re curious or you wouldn’t have come out all this way.”

“You’re the one I’m conversing with,” Bruce tells him, “and I genuinely want to know. You look very tired, Oswald.”

“When am I  _ not  _ tired these days, Bruce?” He leads them both to the kitchen, where he’s made a pot of coffee. It’s becoming a trend in their little group. “Would you like some? I don’t think it’s actually helping anything but I can pretend.”

Bruce knows the feeling. “Yes, thank you.” He sits on a stool at the counter. “I like your new home. It’s aesthetically pleasing, and quiet.”

“It has its charm,” Oswald says as he slides a mug over to Bruce. “I’m afraid I don’t have the energy to give you a proper tour.”

“How are you, Oswald?” he asks again.

Oswald leans on the counter and rests his forehead in his hand. “Tired. I am very tired. And I am  _ stressed _ but so is Ed. It’s never good when we’re both like this.”

“How’s that exactly?”

“Lost? I think that fits the best unfortunately. He’s been in bed all day, not that I can fault him for it, mind you. I’ve done nothing of value aside from check up on him like some doting mother hen.” Oswald laughs. “He’d have made a bird pun there, or a damn riddle. He hasn’t, not for days. Weeks, maybe. It’s hard to recall something I usually try to ignore.” He looks to Bruce, eyes watery, hopeless. “Can you imagine  _ missing  _ those asinine riddles?” he laughs, a bit manic, “it’s  _ maddening _ !” He shouts, and clenches his fists, closing his eyes and breathing heavily through his nose. Then he relaxes, and all the fight drains out of him. “I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore Bruce.”

“You’re worried about him,” Bruce says, moving to the other side of the counter and placing a hand on Oswald’s shoulder. “We all are.”

“I had thought that somehow I’d begun to make amends. That early retirement would somehow please the universe and the two of us could live in peace for once, but divine retribution is incredibly unforgiving.” He looks up at Bruce. “I hate this city. I hate having what it takes to survive here.”

“It will be alright Oswald. I’m going to go talk to Ed,” Bruce tells him. “I don’t know how long we’ll talk, but we will, and when I’m done, there’s something I want to propose to the two of you; something that I think might help.”

“Part of me hopes you’re going to suggest we just  _ cleanse  _ the whole city by fire and start over, but I’m assuming that’s just wishful thinking.”

“If it ever comes to that I’ll be sure to include you.” Oswald laughs once, and Bruce shakes his shoulder a bit, and tightens his grip. “I know it’s preoccupying seeing him like this, but don’t forget to look after yourself. When we’re done talking I’ll come find you. In the meantime I think you should try to rest.”

“I can’t make any promises.” Oswald removes Bruce’s hand from his shoulder. “Unless he’s found the motivation to go into his library he should be in the bedroom. First door on the right upstairs.”

-

Bruce hesitates at the door to Ed and Oswald’s bedroom, because inside he can hear soft snores, and he’d hate to interrupt whatever sleep Ed can manage. Then, there’s a snort, some quiet grumbling as Ed possibly wakes on h i sown, and Bruce hears Ed call out quietly from behind the door. “Os?”

“It’s me,” Bruce answers as he opens the door. Ed sits up and leans against the headboard. His glasses are still off, hair mussed, but he’s only spent one day in bed so far. Hopefully that’s all he spends in bed. “Hello, Ed.”

“Bruce,” Ed nods.

“Am I welcome?” Ed nods again, gesturing to a chair by his side of the bed. Bruce enters the room and sits. “You look well.”

Ed laughs, mirthful at his own expense, but mirthful all the same, “I think you might be mistaken.”

“My intention was to make you laugh, which has succeeded.” Ed smiles. “And you don’t look unwell Ed. You look sad.”

Ed sighs, resting his head against the top of the headboard. “I think defeated is more accurate.”

“Defeat can feel sad. Oftentimes I find sadness to be a core emotion during defeat. Why have you been defeated exactly?”

“I’m not a detective,” Ed says matter-of-factly. “Not in the way you are. I doubt I ever will be.”

Bruce looks at Ed, at the red irritation around his eyes and a wastebasket filled with tissues, and he understands that Ed truly believes this. “Without your detective skills I would still be Strange’s puppet. Your work is incredibly valuable. I’m sure Jim feels the same way.”

Ed sighs, “well, you can tell him I found a link in my cases, in many of the cases, today. Not,” He pauses, “not Kristen,” he says this quietly, and flushes with embarrassment. Bruce doesn’t make him elaborate. “There is a strong correlation between a detective that willingly participated in corrupt practices and having more than a handful of cold cases to their name. The average was closer to twenty.” He looks Bruce in the eye. “This is somewhat tentative. I predict the actual average is higher, especially in which type of criminal activity the detective participated in.”

“Did you look at every file?”

“Detect-Comm- _ Jim  _ gave me access to the electronic logs. I looked at them on my tablet.”

“I think that’s an important discovery, but I also think you should take a break from work.” Ed looks to the bedside table and back to Bruce, nervous, and Bruce suspects he’s already heard this from Oswald and hid his tablet there. “I understand you probably prefer working, because if you’re not keeping busy you have more time to think about Strange, but you’re burning yourself out, and holding things in for too long only makes it worse.” Bruce pauses, swallowing some of his apprehension. “Since returning home I haven’t allowed myself to relax when I’m alone. The nights that I’ve spent with Selina have been the only ones that I’ve slept well through the entire night. I think,” he looks away, “I think maybe none of us are really doing as well as we’d hoped.”

“You didn’t spend an entire day in bed,” Ed says quietly.

“Not today, no,” he agrees, “but I’ve been doing the same thing, throwing myself into my work, and fighting crime. I haven’t truly felt like myself, not since before Strange kidnapped me. It’s like a shadow that just follows you around, haunting you.”

Ed licks his lips, and very quietly he tells Bruce, “I’ve been hearing a voice, my voice yet not, since that day in Strange’s lab.” He looks at his hands. “I don’t know how to tell Oswald.”

“I imagine similar to how you just told me would be adequate.”

Ed shrugs. “It isn’t quite the same.”

Bruce isn’t so sure. “After everything we’ve been through together, the things we’ve shared with one another, I consider the two of you close friends. Not many people would sacrifice what you have. You’re like family to me.” Ed looks touched, and Bruce can hear a tiny sniffle out in the hall, muffled by distance but still distinct. “I have an idea I want to propose to the two of you. Oswald,” he calls out to the hall, and there’s a brief silence before Oswald rounds the door frame and walks over to the bed, clutching a handkerchief in his free hand and eyes red-rimmed. He sits down at the head of the bed near Ed and takes his hand.

“I think we need to leave Gotham.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frigging internet couldn't keep me pinned forever!

“Research log, March 30th.” Ed whispers into his recorder. “Currently, it is two in the morning. I suffered another bout of insomnia, and have decided to use this time productively in order to organize my thoughts for the coming days.”

He runs his fingers through Oswald’s hair when he makes a noise, and Oswald quiets.

“Notably, I have been less productive in the past few days.” He looks out the window at their backyard. There’s a swinging porch seat he’d like to read in someday, and a tall privacy fence. He imagines it’s something Oswald mentioned to the realtor. “Today I successfully motivated myself into taking a much needed shower. It is my hope that I will resume normal research soon.”

He skims through his tablet, looking at a few news articles, all old, but still useful. “Strange has been on sabbatical since the date of my and Bruce’s rescue. It is not known if he still resides in Gotham. I have several of my informants looking for information regarding his location, or any tips as to where he might have moved his lab.”

Oswald grumbles and turns onto his back, squinting up at Ed from his pillow and wiping away sleep. “Ed what’re you doing?”

“Verbally organizing my thoughts.” He smoothes his fingers over Oswald’s brow, soothing the irritated creases away. “I found myself unable to sleep, so I am utilizing my time wisely.”

“Suit yourself,” Oswald mumbles, turning towards Ed and resting his head on Ed’s leg. “But do it  _ quietly _ , if you’re able, or if you can’t, go somewhere else. Sleep is difficult enough without you chattering to yourself, important as it may be.”

Ed places a hand on Oswald’s back. “Go back to sleep Oswald.”

He waits a few minutes until Oswald’s breathing has evened out from sleep before continuing. “We are leaving for Norway in the next few days. Bruce believes, and I support his theory, that we need to remove ourselves from Gotham in order to perform what I am now referring to as a hard reset. It seems the three of us, myself, Oswald, and Bruce, are in need of some,” he pauses, “I believe the proper term is self care but I am unfamiliar with the concept aside from some reading I did on my tablet. During the plane ride I will familiarize myself with this, along with the research articles and trials for the drug Bruce received from PharmaGo.”

He looks towards their bedroom door. “I need to distance myself from research regarding hypnotic suggestion. I may have identified a  _ positive  _ correlation between researching that particular subject and some particularly unpleasant nightmares, resulting in a  _ negative  _ feedback loop, and my opinion on the matter is far from  _ neutral _ . In other words, I find it unpleasant, and need to stop.”

“Jim has given me a break from cold cases. I think he’s concerned I’ll react to Kristen’s signature again. I believe he is mistaken. There were extenuating circumstances that I have previously catalogued in my personal notes, see pages four and five of notebook one. Regardless, he has freed up some of my time for casual reading, which I have found I’ve missed. Once we return, however, I will return to reviewing the cases. He has already been alerted to my statistical lead and intends to use my theory to potentially find any remaining corrupt officers from the GCPD. I consider this particular matter closed, as it is out of my hands.”

“Once we have returned I will be researching two drugs in Bruce’s lab. The first is the nervous system enhancer, which I have only a small sample for unfortunately. Priority lies on discovering the chemical makeup of the drug. The second, a drug that could potentially treat Nora Fries’ illness, is in abundance. I intend to compare the chemical makeup I am able to extract with the papers to confirm they’ve sent the actual drug, and to research how each component is intended to interact with the processes of the body in order to slow the damage her disease causes.”

“On a more personal note, I will be cataloging my emotions. It’s come to my attention that these spikes in euphoria and energy, followed by the subsequent crash, can be tracked, and discovering a pattern could help prevent anything quite so catastrophic. Currently, I would consider myself mildly depressed, but less so than yesterday. I believe this is a sign that my mood will level out soon. I hope this is the case, for my sake as well as Oswald’s.”

_ Especially Oswald’s _ , he thinks, and Ed sets aside his tablet and recorder so he can try to get some sleep.

-

There’s a nervous, anxious energy in the bedroom, which Ed is attempting to ignore by focusing on his daily crossword puzzles. Oswald is bustling about, dragging sweaters and flannel lined dress pants out of their closets and dressers, making tall stacks of soft warm clothing on the side of the bed not occupied by Ed. He’s considered burying himself in the pile of cardigans near his hip, but he hasn’t quite mustered the will to get up and shower, and these are clean clothes, so he refrains.

“Where are my pants?” Oswald grumbles as he slides hangers back and forth.

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“The black pair, the one with two buttons.” He digs around one last time before turning in a huff. “Well?”

“Do you remember the designer?”

“No!” Oswald opens a dresser drawer and starts rifling messily, pairs of pants ending up on the floor. “Ed you could at least offer an opinion-”

“The buttons were silver?”

Oswald pauses, straightens, and turns towards Ed. “Were?”

“I believe you got rid of them. They didn’t fit comfortably.” The ‘anymore’ hangs heavy in the air even though Ed didn’t say it out loud. “Oswald-”

“Stop, Ed, please. I don’t need  _ coddled _ . I can admit, openly, that I have gained  _ some  _ weight in the recent months.”

“Only fifteen, possibly twenty pounds,” Ed says, and Oswald gapes at him. “Is this a time where I was supposed to lie?”

“No,” Oswald rubs his face, “not about something so obvious.” He turns back to the dresser.

“You’re upset.”

“How astute of you,” he snaps, turning back around. “As if that wasn’t  _ also  _ obvious.”

Ed sets his tablet aside. “Oswald I’m sure you could get a replacement pair-”

“Don’t. Coddle. Me.”

Ed folds his hands into his lap. “You aren’t upset about the pants, are you.”

“This isn’t about  _ pants  _ Ed! It was never about  _ pants _ !” Oswald shouts, breathing heavily.

“Ah,” Ed sighs, and stands carefully. “It’s about me, I’m assuming.” He moves towards Oswald, using the bed to support himself.

“Maybe,” Oswald mumbles. He refuses to look at Ed until he’s right in front of him. “I do not like being kept out of the  _ loop _ , Ed.”

“You overheard yesterday.”

“Yes! And you’ve been keeping things from me, but you had no issue telling Bruce when he didn’t even  _ ask _ .”

“I didn’t know how to begin,” he says quietly. “I value your opinion Oswald, over  _ anyone  _ else's, and what I need to say isn’t a  _ good  _ thing.”

“Ed I  _ married  _ you, and I’m fairly certain I said something about for better or for  _ worse  _ in those little vows we exchanged, so I expect you to actually  _ share  _ the worst with me. I’m not asking for a long, drawn out speech, but I want you to at least tell me  _ to my face  _ what you’re dealing with.”

Ed nods. “Okay,” he whispers. Oswald offers up a hand and Ed takes it. “Since that day, ever since I was conditioned,” Ed sucks in a breath, “I have been hearing a voice-”

“Shut up!” he hisses. “He’ll throw you out of his life!” Ed turns to the dresser and looks in the mirror. He looks angry. “You're going to regret telling him anything. I mean, you and I both know how he is. I’m just stating the obvious since you’re too dense to notice.”

“Ed.” Oswald touches his cheek and makes him turn away. “Be honest with me. Are you hearing it now?”

“No,”  _ he  _ says. Ed says, “yes.”

“Oh you’re going to regret that. He’ll tell Jim all about me. Say goodbye to your exoneration.”

Now that  _ does  _ sound possible, or maybe not Oswald, but Bruce will have to tell Jim. Because Ed might be dangerous or unstable or anything else they’ve all said about him. He’ll say he was  _ wrong _ , and that Ed can’t be trusted right now, and that he belongs  _ there _ again. That he never should have left. Ed needs to recruit Zsasz, figure out if the ductwork is still open or convince Oswald to help them hide or run or-

“Ed, dear,” Oswald holds his face in both hands. Ed holds onto Oswald’s wrists and breathes. “No one is telling Jim, unless  _ you  _ want to tell Jim. I will have  _ strong words  _ for Bruce if he ever goes behind your back like that.”

Ed gulps, nervous. “I was fairly certain I only thought all that.”

“I can assure you I haven’t learned to read minds, although that  _ would  _ be a very useful skill to have had when I was still managing the families.”

Ed glances back to the mirror, expecting a scowl or laughter, but the only ones there are him and Oswald. “Interesting.”

“My lust for mind reading powers or your little voice companion?”

“Both, technically his  _ absence  _ but,” Ed shakes his head. He moves to sit on the foot of the bed and tugs Oswald's hand to bring him a bit closer. “What kind of benefit would outweigh having to hear everyone’s opinion of you?”

“Is that a dig at my weight?”

“It is most certainly not,” Ed smiles up at him and pulls Oswald closer, resting his forehead on Oswald’s chest. “In other social settings allowing oneself to have some excess weight suggested wealth and abundance. And you look good. Although, I suspect you wouldn’t have made it through a family meeting before killing half the people in the room.”

“It would have been justified,” he sighs. “I already said I don't need coddled,” he says absentmindedly as he pets Ed’s hair. “I’m perfectly content with myself.”

“Some things are nice to hear from others.”

-

Two days later he and Oswald sit in the foyer of Wayne Manor, hands on their luggage and Ed’s heel tapping nervously. He has a supply of Dramamine and some gum. And his tablet so he can do crosswords and read. And a paperback of his favorite series of detective novels. And Oswald, of course he has Oswald. He wouldn't have ever agreed to leave Gotham without him.

“I already told them I was bringing along some work on my trip,” Bruce tells someone on his Bluetooth as he brings a suitcase to the foyer. “Hold please,” he says before pressing a button, sorry for making you wait. Once Selina gets here we’re leaving.”

“Take your time,” Oswald says. “I’m sure we can entertain ourselves.” He waits until Bruce leaves before turning to Ed and whispering, one hand on Ed’s knee, “I know you’re nervous but your foot is driving me crazy.”

“I’ve never flown before,” he whispers back, willing his foot to be still.

“Really?”

“When have you?” Ed asks.

“Not in a  _ plane  _ exactly. It was one of those ridiculous blimp-like,” he snaps, “a zeppelin!”

“Why were you in a zeppelin?”

“Who can recall in our advanced ages.” Oswald shrugs, clearly bored with the task of remembering. “In any case, is there anything I can do to take your mind off flying?”

He looks at Ed innocently while simultaneously moving his hand up Ed’s leg. “Not now,” Ed whispers. “Maybe,” he swallows, “maybe once we’re on the plane.” He’s going to need a distraction if reading makes him nauseated.

“You two are getting kind of lecherous in your old age.”

“Selina,” Oswald smiles and does  _ not  _ move his hand off Ed’s leg. He actually moves it higher, which is very conflicting while they have an audience. “It’s good to see you.”

She rolls her eyes. “Perv.”

“Selina.” Bruce smiles and takes off his Bluetooth. “We’re ready to leave unless anyone has any last minute preparations. If not, please double check that you have your passports.”

That… is a problem. Ed had somehow convinced himself that passports were unnecessary because he's flying with a Wayne. But no, of course Bruce respects the law. He wonders how he can manage to expedite the process and whether threatening the governing officials that grant passports would be better or worse than his past exploits as the Riddler, but Oswald slips something out of his coat pocket and sets it on Ed’s leg. He stares at it, disbelieving.

“Ed this is your passport,” Oswald whispers and pats his leg, a bit patronizing but also teasing.

“Is it valid?”

Oswald gives him that  _ look _ he’s fond of using when someone asks a foolish question. “Do you honestly think I would go through the trouble of getting these if we couldn’t even use them?”

-

“Unexpectedly, the plane has a bed,” Ed tells his recorder. “I misled myself by researching planes capable of crossing the Atlantic, neglecting to factor in Bruce’s wealth and the technical illegality of transporting Oswald and myself across seas. As a result, his plane is private, and luxurious.”

“A note,” he says, swallowing thickly, “I do not like flying.”

He throws up during take off. And again when they go turbulent about an hour in. Oswald mops up his sweaty forehead and rubs his stomach, helping Ed muster the fortitude to take a Dramamine and wobble his way to a bed in a private cabin. Then he leaves to let Ed rest when Ed gives him the go ahead, assuring him that he’s fine, genuinely this time.

“Another note, Dramamine is enjoyable.”

His stomach is calm and head fuzzy. He can’t read in this state but he can listen to an audio book, drowsily taking in the words and watching clouds out the windows. It’s pleasant, similar to a lazy Sunday, excluding the drastic change in altitude.

“Ed,” he hears Oswald, but inexplicably his eyes have closed and his book is paused, “I have water, or ginger ale if your stomach is still doing flips.”

“It is no longer tumultuous,” he mumbled. “Have we arrived?”

“Hardly,” Oswald scoffs, “but I’m tired of entertaining myself while  _ those  _ two continue to flirt. You make an excellent excuse to leave the main cabin.” Oswald settles onto the bed beside Ed and plucks one of the earbuds out of his ear. “What are you listening to?”

“Penguins,” he says, and Oswald sputters out a laugh.

“I’m going to assume you meant to say far more words than you did unless you want me to believe you've been listening to penguin calls for several hours.”

“Fun fact, penguins mate for life.”

“I’m sure that book says nothing about a penguin falling for a rogue personification of a question mark,” he teases. He touches Ed’s left hand, fiddling with the band on his finger. “You didn’t mention wearing yours to Norway.”

“It was an impulsive act.” He spins his rings round his finger. “I’ve never been out of the county and I found myself wanting it.”

Oswald tugs at his collar and drags a necklace chain out of his shirt, presenting his ring to Ed as it swings in a smooth, pendular manner. “You don’t have to explain.”

-

“A note,” he whispers, touching Oswald’s back with his free hand while he sleeps, “intercourse on a plane  _ is  _ rather enjoyable.”

-

“Research log, April 4th. I am unable to summon the energy to progress any of my research,” he says, despondent, wiping at his eyes with the heel of his hand. He sets aside the recorder and rolls back onto his side, towards Oswald, and hides his face against his chest.

-

“Research log, April 5th. I have determined that I find Norway aesthetically pleasing in the predawn, which often helps my productivity, and following a bout of jet lag I’ve found time to read some of the drug trials. Bruce and I will discuss them over coffee in the morning.”

He sets down his recorder and drinks for his mug of mulled cider. The barest hints of dawn are approaching, but slowly, the sky just beginning to lighten from a deep midnight blue to a pre-dawn shade. Ed lifts his pen and begins writing in his small spiral bound notebook. ‘Tired’ is the first thing he writes, which isn’t a feeling as much as it’s a state of being for him these days, mild depressive mood coupled with jet lag making him groggy at best and exhausted at worst.

He picks up his recorder and taps the button. “I am finding it difficult to quantify emotions in a way that makes them graphable. Notably, words such as ‘sad’ or ‘depressed’ hold little weight, as does ‘achy’ or what appears to be a sad face I’ve drawn on one page. I will attempt to assign quantities to these emotions using a negative ten to positive ten scale.”

He writes ‘content’ next, because he  _ is  _ feeling rather content, sitting at the small wood table and drinking his mulled cider, savoring the quiet of the very early morning while he’s comfortably wrapped up in a robe and an afghan from the foot of his and Oswald’s bed.  _ This _ , he thinks,  _ is what actual recovery feels like. _ Contentment. Comfortable settings. Warmth. A notification that his daily crosswords are available to work on. The sound of a door opening down the hall.

Perhaps that was just an observation. He sets down his recorder and mug before standing, leaning up on the table to look down the hallway and catch a glimpse of someone moving swiftly through the dark spaces until they’re bustling into the living room/kitchen/dining room space Ed’s currently occupying and barreling out into the front yard.

“Bruce?” Ed stands and grabs his cane, taking a moment to set aside his blanket and grab his coat from the coat rack and slipping it on, then picking the blanket back up before following Bruce out into the open air. His breath condenses in the below freezing temperatures, and up ahead on the edge of the small dock Bruce is standing with his arms hugged close around his chest, shivering in the cold without a coat or shoes. “Bruce?”

He approaches slowly, moving to Bruce’s side and using what little light the lightening sky provides to confirm his theory that, yes, Bruce appears to be upset. Ed swallows, and moves slowly, draping the blanket over Bruce’s shoulders in an attempt to alert him of his presence and also provide a measure of warmth. Bruce startles, turning, but he latches onto the blanket, pulling it tighter around his shoulders as he blinks at Ed. Dozens of questions cascade through his mind, but none feel quite appropriate. Bruce wipes his face with a corner of the blanket and exhales shakily, breath visible and lips shaking even with the addition of the blanket.

He settles on a fact. “The average temperature of Norway in this month is only around ten degrees Celsius. That is, however, the expected  _ high  _ and not the predawn temperature, which is currently less than that.”

Bruce takes a few slow, measured breaths. “You think we should go inside.”

“It is my recommendation, yes.” His feet are getting cold and he’s wearing slippers. He can’t imagine standing in the rocky sand with no shoes on and  _ not  _ feeling any pre-frostbite numbness creeping in. “Come on, I’ve made a pot of cider. It will warm your core.”

Ed ushers Bruce back up to the cottage, taking one last moment to look behind them at the calm, still waters of the lake. Whatever sent Bruce running out here was most likely an internal threat, but not so threatening that he thinks they should remain outdoors. He points Bruce over to the table and walks over to the kitchen to get a second mug.

“It’s mulled,” he tells Bruce as he pours some into the mug. “I substituted oranges for blood oranges, and we only had nutmeg and cinnamon. Although I’m not partial to anise so the omission was not a great loss.” He hands the mug to Bruce. “Drink up.”

Bruce holds the mug close and takes a sip, then he sets it down and smiles, which turns into a shaky, but hearty laugh. “If you told me ten years ago that I would find myself in Norway, woken from a nightmare, and being handed a mug of cider by the Riddler I’d have made it my personal mission to commit whoever it was telling me this to a mental health facility.”

“I considered making hot chocolate but there were no mini marshmallows,” he says, smiling. Bruce chuckles. “You had a nightmare?”

“They aren’t uncommon,” he admits. He takes another drink of his cider and takes a moment to close his eyes. “Strange had Selina.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“I find it easier if I do, unless you’re telling me this because you don’t want me to.”

“No,” he says, he thinks  _ maybe _ , but he wants to help. Listening is something he’s very good at. “I’d hope to expect the same from you if our positions were reversed.”

He nods. “She attacked me, because he told her to of course. Again, and again. Deadly attacks. Things that,” he swallows, “I know Selina wouldn’t  _ actually  _ do this. Asleep I didn’t, and had no choice but to defend myself. It was unpleasant.”

“I see.” He holds his own mug close leeching some of the lingering warmth from the mug into his hands. “In one of my dreams I was a lab rat. We had lab rats in college, in some of my courses. Rats are very intelligent, and they can learn to perform complicated tasks,” he finds himself rambling, but Bruce is attentive, so he continues, “but I, the lab rat me at least, was deemed ‘unteachable’. That was the technical term our professor gave rats that did not perform by the end of the semester. It was his way of  _ kindly  _ calling the student responsible an idiot, obviously not in so many words.”

“Was your rat ‘unteachable’?”

“I discovered a new method that nearly halved the teaching time,” Ed says, though it doesn’t feel like a boast, not when he’s staring glumly into his mug. “I was the only person in the class to receive an A.”

“It’s isolating,” Bruce tells him. “Not just intelligence, but what we do, who we are. There are very few people we can truly connect with. I’m very thankful for the two of you. I never imagined that you would be my allies, but I’m glad to say you’re more than that. Also, thank you for making me come inside, and for the cider. It’s very cold outside.”

Ed blinks quickly, and wipes the corner of his eye. “It is,” he agrees. “I’m going to make some coffee, if you’re planning on staying awake. I’ve read through the trials, and I think I have some good news.”

-

Ed blinks awake slowly, calmly, and sees the first morning rays of sunlight peeking in from between the blinds. He slept well, comfortably and soundly, and he finds himself smiling while he watches Oswald as he begins to stir. His face crinkles a little as he yawns, eyes blinking open tiredly, still a bit droopy, and Ed moves in a bit closer to put their foreheads together.

“This  _ particular _ object is also a wave. What am I?” He tells Oswald. He smiles, and Oswald looks at him with wonder, touching his face and smoothing his hair back behind his ear.

“Light,” Oswald smiles. “You will never, for the rest of your life, hear this from me, but I cannot properly articulate just how  _ pleased  _ I am to hear you greet me with one of your damn riddles instead of a good morning like a normal person.” He kisses Ed. “What brought this on?”

“I feel good,” he tells Oswald, and he  _ means  _ it, and Oswald kisses him again.

-

“Jim has requested a video chat to catch up with us,” Bruce explains as he sets his laptop on the coffee table in front of the couch. “He needs to wait until after hours at the GCPD, which I believe should be shortly.”

“He’s making us talk to him at  _ midnight _ ,” Oswald complains, leaning heavily against Ed and grumbling. “If he was  _ considerate _ , he would talk to us in the morning,  _ his morning _ , when we could be enjoying a nice lunch.”

“Like you two  _ actually  _ go to bed at this hour.” Selina drops onto the free end of the couch and drapes her arms across the arm and back. “Unless you’re really  _ noisy  _ sleepers.”

Ed coughs politely and mumbles to his research log, “April 8th. We are having a conference with Jim via video chat. Topics to follow.”

“I’m going to get myself a glass of water before he calls,” Bruce announces.

“Me too,” Selina pipes up.

“I think I would like a coffee,” Oswald muses, looking to Ed, and Ed nods. “Make that two.”

Bruce sighs, compelled by his own hospitable nature, and nods. “Just be sure to answer Jim when he calls.”

“Seriously,” Selina says as she turns towards Ed and Oswald after Bruce has walked away, “you two are really  _ loud _ .”

“Oh  _ please _ ,” Oswald scoffs at her. “As if the two of you aren’t doing the  _ exact  _ same thing in the second bedroom. Try to throw your stones at people  _ before  _ you’re guilty next time dear.”

The video chat client begins ringing, and Ed is the first one to lean forward and accept the call from Jim. It loads a bit slowly, but eventually a clear picture of Jim sitting in his office at the GCPD appears, and the cottage is silent when the see a recent development he’s been working on while they’ve been gone.

“I’m the manly mark that milk makes,” Ed snaps his fingers, pointing at Jim’s face.

“Never thought I’d miss that,” Jim says as he points to his start of a mustache. “So you’re back to saying riddles I take it. That’s a… development, I guess.”

“Thank you for understanding my pain,” Oswald tells him, Ed sees him side-eye Ed, and he shrugs.

“That is a,” she pauses, “ _ bold  _ choice Jim,” Selina says with a grimace.

“Well  _ I  _ like it,” Jim tells her. “Still needs a couple weeks to fill out all the way.  _ Then  _ you can judge me.”

“Jim,” Oswald looks at the computer, smiling sadly, “if this is an attempt to steal me away from Ed let me remind you that I am a happily married man. But also, if this is a genuine attempt you should really have chosen the beard and mustache combo. Ed’s already gotten about a week’s worth of growth ahead of you though, so don’t get your hopes up.”

Jim shrugs. “Yeah, I tried out the depression beard thing when I was a private detective. It doesn’t really suit me.”

“Says you,” Oswald shakes his head. He mouths the word ‘hot’ to Ed, and Ed chuckles.

“How’re you doing Ed?” He asks, ignoring Oswald.

“I am,” he takes a breath, thinking, confirming his opinion, “alright. I am better than I was, at the very least.”

“Good to hear.” Jim nods. “So what did the three of you do to Bruce?”

“They took advantage of my hospitality when I offered to get drinks,” Bruce says as he joins them on the couch and sets a tray beside the laptop.

“Sounds like them,” Jim says with a nod.

“Did you have anything specific you wished to discuss?” Bruce asks. “Nothing too catastrophic has to of happened or we would have heard something from Alfred.”

“Two things. Nothing major.” Jim rifles through some papers. “First, we’re going to send a team to apprehend Ivy, and we wanted some advice. Mostly where she’s hiding because the greenhouse is cleared out.”

Ed taps his chin. “Jim, I believe I’ve addressed her possible locations with Alfred in the database we’ve been working on, and if he’s gotten any updates or sightings he should know. However, I believe she summers near the river in the Uptown districts in one of Oswald’s unused warehouses. Unless, of course, she’s found something better elsewhere.”

“That the only advice you guys have?” Jim asks.

Oswald shakes his head, and says, “I’m terribly sorry Jim I’m just so  _ distracted  _ right now. I can’t really pinpoint a reason but there’s just,” he taps his upper lip, “something demanding my attention.”

“You see, this is why I started growing it out while you were all gone.” Jim rolls his eyes. “Bruce, anything?”

“She is very quick, and can control numerous vines at once. The officers should exercise caution if they’re going to confront her. I believe using the taser you used on me might help, and I believe you can shock the plants.”

“Noted,” Jim says as he writes something down. “Thanks, really. Every little bit helps.”

“Don’t let anyone get impaled this time either Jim,” Selina says, and Oswald glares at her from across the couch. Ed pats his leg, and smiles when Oswald looks at him.

“Yes, thank you,” Jim says, sounding tired. “Okay, second thing. This is just for Bruce. There’s some kid running around Gotham. Detectives say he’s a copycat. When you get back I want you to find this kid and get him to shape up and stop risking his neck.”

“I will,” Bruce says, nodding. “Has he apprehended anyone?”

“I think he stopped a mugging, but nothing major yet. Which is  _ good _ , because the last thing we need is a kid dying because he’s trying to be the next you.”

“I agree.” Bruce looks to Selina. “I may need your assistance if he’s elusive.”

“Honestly, where would you be without me?” She asks. Bruce smiles at her.

Ed coughs once, and asks Jim, “is the records room reorganization finished?”

Jim is quiet, but then he nods after a brief silence, “yeah, Ed. Your system is working really well.”

“And you’re going to remember the  _ immense  _ favor you owe him for doing such a selfless act?” Oswald hints, a bit aggressively, but also with a hand on Ed’s knee, squeezing it comfortingly.

“Yeah, Oswald, I’m working on something.” Jim nods once to Ed, and Ed nods back. “Don’t be gone too long guys. Gotham’s not really the same when you’re all the way in Norway.”

-

“What if we couldn’t return to Gotham?” Oswald asks while they lounge in bed the next morning. “Hypothetically, of course. Say,” Oswald shrugs, moving to his back, “the house got blown up.”

“That seems a tad extreme for a hypothetical.”

“ _ Fine _ , maybe Barbara gets a little too uppity, or Jim decides we’re  _ not  _ going to keep running free, or anything, really. Maybe we decide we need to retire from Gotham.”

“We are retired.”

“Not from  _ crime _ , Ed. From Gotham. The city has a life of its own, and sometimes I think it’s high time we just cut it out of our lives.” He trails his fingers over Ed’s face, and up into the messy fringe of his hair. Ed moves closer to place his head on Oswald’s shoulder. “It’s why I got the passports, actually. Leaving the country has a certain appeal. We have enough to build a house on this lake, with a whirlpool bath of course.”

“Of course,” Ed mimes him, and he hums. “We’d drive each other crazy without something to do.”

“We already  _ do _ , Ed, so we might as well do it somewhere with a better bathtub. I don’t think it’s unreasonable to want to be  _ comfortable _ in my own home.” He knocks their heads together lightly. “You are the only one allowed to drive me crazy and  _ live _ , understand? You should know better than anyone what that means.”

“I love you too, Oswald.”

There’s a soft knock on the bedroom door. Bruce, most likely. Ed sits up and reaches for his glasses as Oswald invites him inside.

“I wasn’t sure if the two of you would be awake. I’m sorry to have to spring this on the two of you so suddenly, but we need to return to Gotham as soon as possible.” Bruce holds up his communicator, which is pinging rapidly. “It seems we’re needed elsewhere.”


	5. Chapter 5

“I hope our flight didn’t keep you waiting too long Commissioner,” Bruce rasps. The halls of Arkham are rather crowded at midday, and he needs to hide his identity until they get the cameras off.

“Nah, I called in to have them isolate Zsasz in an interrogation room and went back to sleep. It was four in the goddamned morning when my phone started going off.” Jim flashes his badge at the check in station and one of the security staff leads them both to a heavy metal door. “He hasn’t done anything since you checked up on him, or if he did it wasn’t bad enough to alert the GCPD.”

“We’ll need to be careful,” he reminds Jim. “I told him explicitly to only alert us if he saw Strange. And we don’t know if they interacted directly.”

“Log shows him being here the whole time, but it’s easy enough to lie when it’s a paper copy.” Jim and Bruce step into the interrogation room and Bruce reaches up to disconnect the camera once security leaves them alone. “Hey Zsasz.”

He huffs once, maybe a greeting, but it’s heavily laced with irritation. He’s been in this room for several hours at this point, something Bruce is loathe to admit was probably safer for him in the long run. Due to Zsasz’s demeanor Bruce finds himself hesitating to undo the straitjacket, but he still crosses the room and undoes the buckles. “You alerted us, and I’m assuming it was with good reason.”

Zsasz is preoccupied with cracking his back and neck now that his arms are free. And glaring. He’s getting in plenty of glaring. If Bruce is correct he’s been in Arkham for a solid month now, and it’s starting to show.

“Come on Victor, did you see Strange or not?” Jim asks. Zsasz nods. “Well what was he doing here?”

Zsasz shrugs.

“Victor, I know you don’t want to be in here, I can understand your desire to get out by any means, but this is of the utmost importance, and if you’re lying about having seen Strange we’re going to have a harder time trusting you in the future.”

“Didn’t speak,” he says, gruff, and he cracks his neck again. “Not to me.”

“But you saw him on the premises. Did you see him speak to any of the inmates? Or someone on the staff?” Bruce asks, quietly, trying to sound encouraging. Zsasz shrugs. “Victor this doesn’t  _ help  _ us.”

“Sorry,” he says, no empathy or sympathy in his voice.

“Bruce,” Jim gets his attention and motions for them to have a chat outside the door.

“Stay here please,” he requests, and Bruce follows Jim out into the hallway.

“What the hell is his problem?”

“Arkham, most likely,” Bruce whispers. “He’s been here for a full month now.”

“He’s supposed to be here for  _ life _ ,” Jim exclaims, then he takes a breath. “Sorry. This is incredibly frustrating.”

“I understand your frustration. And you aren’t wrong, Jim. He belongs here, or somewhere like here.”

“We don’t have an alternative, Bruce,” he says quietly. “How many facilities do you think are even equipped to deal with Zsasz when he gets like this?”

“Certainly not the one making him this way in the first place,” Bruce mutters. “We’ve had plenty of more pressing matters in the past, but we need to address this issue before something actually happens.”

“I’ll,” Jim sighs, “I’ll set aside some time after we catch that kid running around as Bat Jr so we can figure out some possible alternatives. In the meantime I’ll send a detective or two over to look into any complaints. Sound good?”

“It sounds like a good start.” Bruce nods. “If you’ll give me a few minutes I’ll try to talk to him. I might have a few ideas to occupy his time. It may help if he has a task while he’s here. I think I would prefer to speak alone, if that’s alright with you.”

“Sounds good, because I need some coffee,” Jim says to himself as he walks down the hall. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Bruce slips back into the interrogation room and sits in the chair opposite Zsasz. He pulls back his cowl and folds his hands together on the tabletop. Zsasz mimics him, and watches Bruce with mild interest.

“I can’t make you any promises, Victor. There are no alternatives to Arkham in Gotham. You aren’t fit to be with the general population, and I reluctantly admit that you’re far more adept than Blackgate would be able to manage if you were fit for regular lockup. Right now, even though I’m sure you don’t agree, you need to be here. I trust Ed and Oswald, but I also know they’re prone to giving you more free will than they should.”

“And I can’t just help you myself, not the way you truly need. If i could, I would have already proposed you be transferred to the Manor.” Victor is withdrawing physically; he’s sitting back in his chair, and if Bruce glances under the table he’s certain he’d see two chair legs hovering off the floor. “I know you’re not agreeing outright, but the mere fact that you're not protesting tells me you know I’m right.”

He shrugs. “Doesn’t make it good.”

“I know. I just don’t know what to do instead.” Bruce watches Zsasz as he sits forward again and starts massaging his temples. “Do you have a migraine?”

“Caffeine headache,” he grumbles.

“I’m sure they would prefer if you didn’t overload your system with stimulants.” Zsasz sets his face on the cool metal table and covers his head. “You’re certain you haven’t had contact with Strange? This is quite a long time to still have caffeine withdrawal.”

“Traded a guy,” he says. “Nurse.”

“I see,” Bruce makes a mental note to recommend a crackdown on the staff. “Why did you stop?”

“Guy got fired for selling meds.”

Bruce laughs to himself. “I hope you do realize that’s a good thing.”

“Says you.”

Zsasz’s request for caffeine pills was, undoubtedly, the most tame request anyone probably gave the ex-nurse. But Bruce is certain Zsasz wasn’t his only customer. He doesn’t get to ask anything more, because there’s a soft knock on the door. Bruce puts his cowl in place before Jim reenters with two paper cups. “I don't remember asking for coffee.”

“You didn’t,” Jim says as he walks over to the table and sets a cup in front of Zsasz. “Figured I’d offer an olive branch. Sorry, no caffeine powder.”

Zsasz lifts his head and snatches up the cup, taking a drink and holding the cup to his forehead. “This is the shittiest coffee I’ve ever had.”

“Yeah, you aren't missing anything Bruce,” Jim says as he pulls out his chair and sits. “So what did you find out?”

“Nothing concrete, but I have an idea if you’re willing to do something for us Victor.”

“They’re going to be an ‘in exchange for’ part to this or am I supposed to do whatever it is out of the kindness of my heart?”

Bruce shrugs. “I’m sure we can come up with something. I’m proposing you act as an inside man of sorts. Dedicate some of your attention towards the staff, and see if you notice any of them acting odd or carrying out illegal activities. Either way they shouldn't be working in a mental health facility.”

He looks at Jim, and Jim nods. “Not a bad idea. I can come in and get your report on Fridays. Be sure to get any patient complaints if you can and we’ll look into them. Hell, I’ll make sure to bring some better coffee for you. How’s that for payment?”

“You’re one of the good ones Jim,” Zsasz says, looking at Jim admiringly (or possibly predatorily) and Jim coughs once, uncomfortable most likely.

“We should get going. We need to try and figure out where that kid usually tries to fight crime before he gets himself hurt.”

“Be sure to alert us if you see any sign of Strange, Victor, regardless of the hour.” He looks to Jim. “I’ll stay here for a few more minutes. I need to ask some other questions unrelated to Strange.”

“Stop by the GCPD once you’re done,” Jim tells him. “Take care of yourself Zsasz.”

“Nah,” he says, taking another drink of coffee. “Not my style.”

He waits until Jim leaves before asking, “are you supposed to be on a medication of any kind?” Zsasz nods. “I’m assuming you aren’t.”

“Nope.”

“Have you taken it in the past?” A nod. “Did it make you groggy, or listless?”

“Yep.”

Bruce pushes his cowl back down and stares at the table. “I don’t doubt the necessity of treatment. I do, however, doubt the sincerity of your prescription given its source. With the possibility that Strange is pulling strings in the background and the knowledge that you’ve seen him here,” ignoring the possibility that it was a ploy, “I am going to condone your continued avoidance. If you were in any other facility and you received the same treatment I would not be telling you this, but I’ve felt firsthand what Strange is capable of, and I will not let anyone else go through that if I can help it.” Bruce looks Zsasz in the eye. “I’m not happy about this. This is not helping you, and I’m condoning negative behaviors, but if your positions were reversed I’m sure I would share your sentiment. If I’m being honest with you, I hate this facility and its practices.”

“Join the party,” Zsasz mutters into his cup of coffee before taking a drink. “This really is the shittiest coffee I’ve ever had in my life.”

-

“Alfred, I need a favor,” Bruce says into his communicator.

“And what would that be Master B?”

“I need you to look into alternatives to Arkham. I think we must’ve missed something.”

Alfred sighs, “Master B I know you are well intentioned but I think it’s time to accept that we’re beating a dead horse with this one.”

“Arkham isn’t fit to treat anyone Alfred.” He slams the door to the Batmobile shut and settles into his seat.

“I know that sir, but we spent a whole month in Norway looking for options while you were lazing about recovering from your injuries-”

“Those phrases don’t really mesh well Alfred.”

“-and you need to accept that we’ve done all we can. There is no other facility in the state equipped to handle people like Victor Zsasz, and even if there were they don’t want him. He’s a gigantic liability. It’s time to call this one a loss, Master Bruce. We don't have an alternative that works long term. The best we have is hiding him in the basement like a damn hermit, and we both agreed that’s only to option if the situation is dire, which it is not.”

Bruce says nothing, just huffs angrily as he starts the engine. He pushes off his cowl and pulls the communicator out of his ear, then he turns on some music. “Loud, busy, rock-metal, and he closes his eyes and lets the sounds take him away for a few minutes.

When he's calmed down he turns the music to something smoother, less angry and more melancholy, and he puts the communicator back in his ear. “It makes me feel helpless. I said I would help.”

“You also said you’d give me fair warning when you plan to play your music that loud,” Alfred complains.

“Sorry Alfred.”

“No need, sir, just please try to remember one of these days. In any case, try to not take this too personally Master B. You’re doing a hell of a lot more to help the rogues of Gotham than the average citizen, and you’ve seen results, as few and far between as they may be. Which reminds me, Mr. Nygma requested use of the lab for that little project you’re working on for Victor Fries.”

“He’s more than welcome. Following my meeting at the GCPD I’ll call him.” Bruce begins driving towards the headquarters. “Have you spoken with Selina?”

“Sir she’s probably  _ asleep _ , given the fact that until half a day ago right now was nighttime for the four of you. And I think you can spare a few hours without being with her. Lord knows you have plenty to do since you keep dodging work at the office.”

“I need her help finding my copycat. Word gets around, and she’s the most likely to have overheard something on the streets.”

“Yes, I suppose you are correct sir. Related to your little doppelganger, while you were at Arkham I took the liberty of researching your young fan. It appears he’s been seen in the Narrows, but the police have received numerous reports of a young man stopping small crime throughout the Downtown area as well.”

“Is there any speculation on his identity?”

“Nothing worth any second thoughts unless you secretly had a child about fifteen years ago, sir.”

“I’m fairly certain I didn't,” he says curtly, and he parks outside Selina’s apartment. “I'm going to speak with Selina.”

“I’ll see if I can find anything else on our mystery hero, sir.”

“Thank you.” He silences his communicator and gets out of the Batmobile. He’s parked in a covered alley, and if he remembers correctly there’s a brick guardrail around Selina’s roof that he can grapple to in order to reach her floor faster. He secures his cowl and moves to the far end of the alley, and once he determined which roof is Selina’s Bruce activates his grappling hook and begins winching himself up.

“You do know it’s super easy to just knock this off the roof right?”

“I hope you’re not that malicious,” Bruce tells Selina as he climbs up the rest of the way. “How are you?”

“Well some weirdo woke me up when he shot a metal hook onto my roof. In the daytime. You just miss me too much, right? Wanted to see me so soon?”

He is pleased to see her, but that’s not important. “I need your help locating the teenage vigilante. He’s been spotted in the Narrows and Downtown.”

“Haven’t heard much at the Flea, but I’ll keep my ears open. Think he’s a street kid?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken with Jim yet. He may have information not yet released by the news outlets.” He sits against the roof guard wall and Selina joins him. “Apparently the rumor is he’s my son. I can’t imagine why.”

“I bet people just hope your weird little hobby runs in the family.” She pushes back his cowl and plays with his hair. “You look like shit.”

“Thank you.”

“No, really, you look like hell.”

“I haven’t slept since we got back.” It’s only an eight hour flight, but he never fell asleep on the plane either.

“Well that explains a few things.” She pulled him over so he’s resting his head on her leg.

“Selina my armor doesn’t make very comfortable sleepwear.” He still closes his eyes for a moment. “And I need to see Jim.”

“I’m sure Jim won’t mind if you take a little cat nap. You can use my bed.”

“You won’t be there?” He opens his eyes and looks up at her, turning onto his back in the process.

“I have work to do.  _ Real  _ work. Animal shelter had kittens.” She leans her head against the wall. “Doesn’t mean you can’t get some sleep.”

“There’s work to do.” Including work for Wayne Enterprises, which he is chronically behind on these days. “Maybe after my meeting.”

“Well if you change your mind the South window will be open.”

“I appreciate it.” He closes his eyes again. “If you could force me upright in five minutes I would also appreciate that.”

-

“I’d like to thank you for accepting my help with this matter,” Bruce tells the room, rasping his voice while trying to project so everyone can hear. “First and foremost, our goal is to ensure the safety of this young man. Any information you have for your various districts will be helpful.”

Bruce scans the bewildered faces of the lead detectives, and then he turns to JIm, and Jim rubs his face, sighing. “Someone just ask and get it out of your systems.”

“Why a bat?” one of the detectives asks, and Bruce turns back to the three rows of chairs set up in front of Jim’s desk.

“Personal preference,” he says, and Jim snorts. “Commissioner?”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “Alright, I know this is weird for all of you, but this is a thing we’re doing now. Batman here has agreed to adhere to our rules, and just like us his goal is to bring justice to Gotham. His focus is the rogue gallery we’re all very familiar with, but if anyone has a case they think he can help with just run it by me. However, he will not be given a case any of your detectives are working on without them knowing. We’re working together. This isn’t a competition.”

“I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes,” Bruce says. “If you feel your efforts will be sufficient feel free to handle the situation yourselves.”

“But if I tell any of you to hand something over, believe me, it’s for good reason,” Jim adds. “Now, what districts have seen this kid?”

Bruce closes his eyes for a moment, having to strain his focus a bit in the sweltering heat of Jim’s office. He listens to the detectives as they list off the main districts of Gotham.

“Uptown’s been quiet.”

“Couple of botched robberies in the Narrows.”

“Downtown’s seen him for weeks, stopping muggings, one assault.” Bruce perks up at that comment. “Sounds like he doesn’t engage directly. No one knows what he really looks like except young and male, and that might even be a stretch.”

“You said weeks,” Bruce clarifies with the detective.

“First report was,” she flips through her notes, “seven weeks ago. Mugging.”

Seven weeks ago he was still in Norway. Interesting. “Has anyone in Midtown heard anything?” The detectives shake their heads. “Thank you for your time, but I think we’re not going to need your help if you have other matters you need to attend to.”

“Um,” Jim gets Bruce’s attention with a cough. “If your districts has no sightings you can return to work.”

Bruce smiles apologetically, and Jim waves a hand dismissively.

“If we could, I’d like to fill in a map with the sightings and dates.”

Bruce watches as one by one a date and location is added to the cork board map. There is a definite pattern unfolding, the young vigilante’s range increasing with each success, until the final Narrows sighting is added, right near a bridge leading to Midtown.

“He’s getting braver,” Bruce mutters. “He most likely lives in the Downtown area. It took him nearly a month to venture outside this ten block radius,” he explains as he points out the area. “Occasionally, he returns to this area, twice this last week, but he’s also branching out. If we let him continue I suspect he would move into Midtown next.”

“And he never goes out on the weekends,” Jim points out.

Bruce scans the map. “School nights.” Interesting. “And late, based on the reports.”

“I was pretty sure teenagers liked sleep too much to do something like this,” Jim says to Bruce. “He should be out tonight if he’s consistent.”

“We need people on the streets looking,” Bruce tells him, and Jim nods.

“Okay listen up,” Jim turns to the room. “He’s probably going to be out there tonight. We need officers out looking for this kid  _ before  _ he gets in over his head. Remember, he’s young, and he thinks he’s doing us a favor. Apprehend him, keep him in a squad car, and our  _ associate _ ,” he motions to Bruce, “if going to have a few words to say to him. I think he’ll be more likely to listen if his idol tells him to stop. We’ll begin patrolling for him after sundown. Thank you for all your contributions. Now, get back to your shifts,” he says with a smile.

“Thank you,” Bruce tells the group as they leave. He turns to Jim once everyone is gone, voice sore and cracking, asking, “do you have any water?”

Jim laughs and bends over to reach into his mini fridge. “I wondered if that was going to happen.”

“I neglected to heed Alfred’s warning about disguising my voice this way. Thank you.” He accepts a bottled water from Jim and opens it, drinking deeply and sighing when the cool water soothes his throat. “Usually I don’t need to speak for that long.”

“Maybe not on patrol.” Jim laughs to himself. “Good thing Ed’s on our side now.”

“He does like to talk,” Bruce agrees reluctantly. “He’s just thorough.”

“Yeah, he is,” Jim gestures to two boxes of files by his desk. “He told me he needs these. I can’t imagine how he puts all this together sometimes. And I have  _ no  _ idea when he thinks he’ll have the time to look at them all.”

“He finished reading the trials I gave him, so I imagine he wants to move onto the next project.” Bruce leans against Jim’s desk, feeling the heat of the room catching up to him again. “The treatment for Nora Fries shows a lot of promise. He called the key mechanism brilliant.”

“High praise from Ed.” Jim blinks. “Wait  _ Nora _ ?”

“It’s,” Bruce pauses, and takes a deep breath, “complicated doesn't really encompass everything, but yes.”

Jim shakes his head. “Alright, I guess.”

Bruce nods. “It’s not something I fully understand myself, but I’m doing what I can to help. I need to read the trials as well, but I’m going to inform Victor Fries today so he knows it isn’t just a false hope. I trust Ed’s judgement on the matter.” Bruce glances at the map again. “But I’ll wait until after I find this kid.”

Jim sighs. “Okay, we both know you’re going to be the one to find him first. That’s just how this kind of thing  _ goes  _ in Gotham, but just please, for my sake, at least tell me the kid’s name.”

“I don’t know if I should reveal his identity.”

Jim gapes at Bruce, then rubs his eyes. “What are you thinking Bruce?”

He skims the crimes the young vigilante has stopped: robbery in an apartment, muggings, an attempted arson. He’s been busy, but he’s also been cautious. None of the crimes have been notably dangerous.

“He reminds me of me, when I was just beginning this project at least.”

“Bruce,” Jim warns, “he’s still breaking the law. I got you police sanctions because one, you’re going to go out there anyway, but also because I wanted to send a message about vigilantism. There’s no place in Gotham for it, no offense. I know you’ve done a lot of good work but honestly? We got lucky with you.”

“Maybe luck can be learned.”

“You want this kid to work with you?”

“When he’s an adult, maybe. Until then I agree with you. He could easily misinterpret a situation and get in very real trouble. I’m going to tell him to stop, Jim. And because I trust you with my secret I’ll trust you with his. I only ask you keep the secret to yourself unless the situation deems it necessary to tell others.”

“I can work with that.” Jim nods. “Just be sure to tell me if he joins your team and I’ll get him approval.”

“Certainly.” Bruce covers a yawn with his hand. “My apologies. I haven’t gotten a chance to correct my sleep patterns.”

“My couch is open if you need it.”

Bruce looks over to the plush tan couch along the far wall. It’s very inviting and the room is nearly stifling because of the heater near the door. Bruce lifts his cowl enough to wipe at his eyes. “Selina offered her bed to me as well, but I should really go into work for a few hours.”

“So you can sleep at your desk? You don’t really want to go in do you?”

“I  _ should  _ go in regardless of my opinion,” he says, but he’s not terribly enthusiastic.

“When did you tell them you’d be back from Norway?” Jim asks.

“Tomorrow,” Bruce says, “but only because I didn’t know how long the meeting would take.”

“Just take a damn nap Bruce. If the couch is good enough for Ed then it’s probably good enough for you.”

He’s not certain how to interpret that comment, but he sighs and stands up straight, moving over to the couch and removing his cowl the rest of the way. “Will people come into your office?”

“If the door is shut they at least knock.” he opens a closet and pulls out a pillow and sheet. “If you want your armor out of sight the closet is half empty.”

“Thank you,” he accepts the pillow and blanket and sets them on the couch. He’s not going to sleep long, just enough to refresh his energy levels, but he won’t feel rested if he leaves his armor on, so he begins removing his armor piece by piece until it’s in a pile on the closet floor and he’s down to just his underthings. Jim laughs to himself, and Bruce looks over to him, confused.

“Are white undershirts amusing?” He’s also in shorts, breathable but still somewhat tight, but not obscenely so.

“I just remember when you were smaller than me.”

“I was taller than you by the time I turned fifteen.” Something young Bruce was rather proud of, if he remembers correctly.

“I could have still taken you in a fight then. Now,” Jim shakes his head, then he gestures to the cough. “Well, get to it. I’ll steer people clear for now.”

“It’s only because your office is so warm,” Bruce mumbles once he’s under the sheet, comfortable and warm, lying with his back to the room.

“That’s by design. I swear none of you know how to take a damn break.” Bruce can’t really argue with him, so he stays quiet. “Get some sleep Bruce.”

He pulls the pillow forward so his arm is looped around the middle and closes his eyes, just for a minute.

-

Awareness seeps in slowly between blurring images, memories cascading together in a messy, unending onslaught. There’s a hand on his shoulder, words in his ear from somewhere above him, and a tan, plush couch. Bruce takes in a deep, shaky breath and turns onto his back.

He blinks up at Jim. “Hello.”

“I thought you were going to tip my couch,” Jim tells him. “Bad dreams?”

“I don’t remember them,” he says, squinting as he fails to recall anything concrete. He looks over at the windows across the room. “Is it late?”

“Tried to wake you earlier but you were out cold. It’s barely past sunset.” Bruce sits up and watches Jim move back to his desk and sit. “Been having trouble sleeping?”

“Occasionally.” Bruce stands and stretches out his back. “Have you sent out patrols?”

“Not yet, but soon.” Jim picks up his phone. “I’ll make the call now, you get ready and find this kid before he gets himself killed.”

-

“Selina, have you heard anything in the Narrows?”

“No,” she sighs, talking too loudly, and Bruce winces as his communicator assaults his ear, “and the Flea is quiet. And no one’s seen him in Midtown. Look, I know I agreed to help but I don’t really have all night to do this. You don’t even know if he’s going to show.”

“We need to keep looking,” Bruce tells her, quietly, as he scans the Downtown alleyways from his perch on a billboard. “I don’t expect to find him tonight, but I want to at least get a look at him myself.”

“Well why didn’t you have  _ Ed  _  look at his pattern?”

“He’s not answering his phone.” Bruce suspects he’s been asleep for most of the day. “He was sick on the plane. I doubt he got any restful sleep.”

“Yeah,  _ that’s  _ the reason he didn’t sleep.” He can practically feel Selina rolling her eyes, and Bruce chuckles. “I know you’ve grown up basically dealing with their shit but please don’t become an old lecherous creep.”

“I don’t think they’re particularly creepy Selina,” Bruce says, and she laughs. “And forty isn’t that old.”

“They’re nearly  _ fifty _ .” Selina huffs once and Bruce can hear the sound of her wall climbers as she presumably moves around. “Seriously can’t we just leave a trap for this kid? I know a few guys that would be willing to set up a fake mugging for him to stop.”

“I don’t want him getting hurt Selina. That’s why we’re out here doing this.”

“It’s why  _ you’re  _ out here doing this,” she says. “ _ I’m  _ going to go to bed if this takes too much longer. It’s already past  _ midnight  _ and we haven’t seen a thing.”

“None of the officers have seen anything either,” Bruce admits. “I’m curious to know if he actually goes out every night, or if it just seems that way.”

He hasn’t stopped a crime each night unless some are going unreported, which Bruce had assumed was possible, but maybe his normal life has sporadic obligations. It’s very possible he’s just not  _ out  _ tonight.

“God  _ of course  _ that summons him - hey Bruce he’s in the Narrows,” Selina says, hands and feet tinking on metal and brick, and Bruce leaps from his perch and begins running across rooftops towards the Narrows. “Looks like he found another mugging.”

“Don’t get too close unless it looks like he can’t handle it.” Bruce hops to the next roof and charges towards a stone arch between two buildings. “See what he uses.”

“He’s so  _ scrawny _ Bruce,” she hisses. “Can’t imagine this kid can throw a punch.”

“I don’t think he  _ does _ ,” Bruce tells her as he grapples to swing to a lower building, landing in a crouch before running towards the next roof. “Just give me a minute.”

“Things are looking a little heated down there,” Selina whispers. “Aw shit.”

“Selina?”

“Just get over here fast B our friendly neighborhood mugger has a damn kiddie pistol in the back of his pants,” Selina says quickly, and Bruce quickens his pace. “Mini bat isn’t down there but he’s hanging out on the roof across from me,” she whispers.

“Selina, I want you to try to get behind him,” Bruce instructs her as he leaps down to cross the bridge into the Narrows. “See if he has any sort of weapon or other tool, and if you can I want you to apprehend him, but don’t hurt him.”

“Oh I’m glad you said that. I was just planning on braining the kid in the back of the head,” she snaps, quietly, but still upset.

“I just don’t want him hurt.”

“Yeah I  _ got it _ , okay? I’ve been helping you for like, ten years. I know what I’m doing.”

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says, still a bit taken aback. “Jim is putting a lot of trust in me. I just want everything to work out right.”

“Kid’s got something in his hand,” she says, anger apparently forgotten. “Shit, he has  _ smoke bombs _ . Of course he has smoke bombs he’s trying to take after you.”

“Can you get the gun from the assailant?”

“Already on it,” she mutters. Bruce leaps over a railing and lands on the next roof, rolling and coming to a brief stop when he sees the cloud of smoke rising a few blocks away. “Bruce, I have it,” she rasps, possibly from the smoke.

“Is the copycat still there?” Bruce scans the rooftops but he can’t see anything.

“Can’t see shit hold on,” she climbs back up onto the roof and Bruce hones in on her, shortening the distance until he’s on the next roof over, watching Selina wave her arm dismissively. “Kid’s gone.”

“At least you got the gun,” Bruce tells her as he jumps to her roof. She looks over to him and Bruce hears a beep in his ear when Selina disconnects her communicator. “Thank you.”

“I still lost the kid,” she says, handing the small pistol over to Bruce. “Not really a great job.”

“But you made sure he didn’t get hurt, and that’s just as important.” Bruce looks over the edge of the roof and sees one person standing by a garbage can, shocked. “Is that the victim or the mugger?”

“Uh,” Selina looks over with him, “mugger, actually. Have some fun down there. I’m going to get going.”

“But Selina-”

“But  _ nothing _ . He’s not going to show up again tonight. Kid never helps in two places in the same night. If you want to keep looking that’s your choice, but I need some sleep.” She pats Bruce on the cheek and smiles. “Have fun Brucy,” she whispers, kisses him, and she runs at one of the roof edges, diving over it and heading off towards her apartment.

-

“Alfred I’m going to speak with Victor Fries after work,” he tells Alfred while crammed into his private bathroom at Wayne Enterprises. “I read the trials during a meeting.”

“You really should have a better work ethic Master B.”

“I thought I was supposed to be a party boy. Shirking my duties sounds like a thing a party boy would do.”

“Master Bruce at least call yourself something a bit more adult than a “party boy” if you’re going to call yourself anything at all.” Alfred chides him, laughing to himself. “I’ll leave some leftovers in the fridge.”

“Thank you,” he whispers, and he can hear knocking on his office door. Bruce groans. “If the pharmacy department tries to ignore company policy one more time I might jump off the roof.”

“Be sure to wear your suit if you do,” Alfred tells him. “Have a good rest of the day Master Bruce.”

He exits his bathroom and straightens his jacket, waving through the window at Brenda and sitting at his desk. “Is it the pharmaceuticals department again?”

“It’s their supervisor,” she says apologetically.

“He does realize I still don’t have either report from his department right?”

“I’ve told him,” she winces. “I don’t think he’s really satisfied hearing it from me.”

“You’re plenty smart, and you do your job well.” Bruce flips through a few papers on his desk to make sure he truly does not have a report, which he doesn’t. “I suppose if he really needs to hear it from me I have a free minute before I meet with the board.”

“He’s right outside,” she tells him, and he sighs. “Should I tell him you’re ready?”

_ No, please no _ . “Sure. If he has a report in hand, call me on line two, if he doesn’t, call line one.”

 

“I can do that,” she says with a smile, and Brenda walks out of his office and into the entryway to his corner of the floor. He waits a few moments, and line one rings, and Bruce closes his eyes for a second to think deep, calming thoughts.

_ At least I can tell Victor the good news _ , he thinks, and it’s that thought that gets him through the rest of the day.

-

Bruce has a fairly well developed sixth sense regarding suspicious situations, and the lack of frost on the window outside Victor Fries’ hideout is most definitely suspicious. He knocks three times, the simple agreed-upon way he is to announce his presence, and the door swings in without resistance. Taking a moment to prepare himself for an emergency, Bruce begins ringing Alfred at the Manor and steps into the main room.

It’s unoccupied. The chair and table are still along the wall with the window, and his makeshift kitchen space is untouched, a few cups and plates on the counter, and the couch, once rather oddly pristine within the cold room, is beginning to look a big soggy and unkempt. The temperature is moderate, about on par with outside, but far too warm for Victor to feel comfortable. Possibly, it’s too warm for him to even survive, although Bruce isn’t completely certain of that.

“You rang Master B?”

“Something is wrong,” he tells Alfred. “I’m at Victor Fries’ hideout, but it’s no longer cold.”

“You don’t think something’s happened to the man do you sir?” Alfred asks. “I haven’t heard a peep from law enforcement about him.”

“I’m not sure,” Bruce tells Alfred. “I’m looking in his bedroom now,” he tells Alfred, and as he pushes open the door he finds it empty as well, with a now soggy looking bed and warm, uncomfortable (for Victor Fries) temperatures. “I think he’s gone.”

“I can’t imagine where he’d go, can you sir?”

“No,” Bruce tells him and he pulls back his cowl. “But wherever it is, I need to find him.”

\--


	6. Chapter 6

“Research log, April 12th,” Ed says brightly, smiling as he flips through his notes and opens up a few files of his rogue database. “Currently Bruce has me researching Victor Fries to determine likely places he could have disappeared to, with the consideration that it may have not been of his own free will. I believe, based on what I found at his last known place of residence, that there was no struggle, but he must have left in a hurry, because there were several items still in his fridge, and most of his clothing in the closet. Admittedly, I don’t know how he left his last place, and this kind of behavior might be typical of him.”

Ed types in Fries, Victor into his search box and watches the files open on his screen. “Quite the  _ cool  _ customer,” he says to himself, watching photos and police reports open rapid-fire. “Fries, notably, could not have used a public plane. I’ve been researching his personal cooling system, and he would not have been allowed to bring the suit on board, leaving him with his smaller, more compact version, which is notably fragile. I doubt he’s stress tested it for the altitude change required to fly, considering the possible consequences. My theory is that he has either been taken by someone, or he’s simply moved locations to evade the GCPD.”

He minimizes the photo albums and focuses on the police reports, noting the dates and any patterns. “Interestingly, he’s not been indicated at the perpetrator for a crime in nearly four years.” He writes himself a note under the “ask Bruce” column on his notebook. “I need to determine what might have caused this change in behavior, although I have a few theories.”

He flips his notepad and continues. “I am meeting with Alfred later this evening to begin analysis of the medication for Nora. While in Bruce’s lab I intend to extract the chemical sample from my blood sample, which I’ve kept preserved in the freezer. Oswald found this while looking for the bottle of Vodka he bought in Norway, and I am thankful I use thorough labelling, although he tells me that really isn’t the issue at hand.” Ed laughs to himself, amused. “Regardless, I will need to work quickly, as the sample is already four months old, and degradation is more likely in the room temperature of the lab.”

Ed turns to his final page. “Because I’ve suspended hypnotism research I will be focusing on the cases Jim Gordon has put under my scrutiny. Those include this mysterious copycat vigilante, who continues to evade Bruce’s capture, along with a few older cases he’s uncovered following my suspicions regarding corrupt officers. I am on strict orders to only focus on one case a day, which I suspect is Oswald’s doing, but it leaves me some time to continue my personal reflections,” he pats his breast pocket of his shirt, feeling the small notebook there, “and I am also working on my crosswords, which I have fallen behind on as of late. I’m told it’s important to remember to take some time each day and dedicate it to something I enjoy, or at least that is what I’ve garnered from the ‘self care’ reading I’ve done.”

He takes a moment to update his mood graph on his tablet before packing up his bag and standing. “On a personal note, I’ve increased the strength in my calf, and can now locomote without the use of my cane, provided I keep both braces on. However, I have not been approved to drive. I will be speaking with a few mechanics in the next few days in order to determine which of them can switch the pedals to convert a vehicle to a left-footed one at a reasonable price.”

Ed slings his bag over his shoulder and pauses his recorder. In the main room of Enigma Services he finds Gabe reading the paper and he smiles when Gabe waves. “I shouldn’t need another ride today. It’s my understanding that Oswald plans to join me at Wayne Manor following his meeting?”

“That’s the plan,” Gabe says as he folds the paper and shoves it under one arm. He stands and gestures to the door. “Ready?”

“Yes,” he says, sparing one glance to the empty desk along the far wall. “Perhaps I should consider getting an assistant.”

“Going to need the boss’ approval if you do,” Gabe tells him.

Ed chuckles. “Yes, I can’t imagine he would be thrilled about someone outside our influence worked close to me.”

Not that Ed has any intentions to hire someone he or Oswald doesn’t know personally. He follows Gabe out to the car and gets into the passenger seat. It’s a nice day outside, and Ed takes a moment to alter his personal plans slightly in order to have a little time outside in the unseasonably warm air. He’s thankful he always keeps a book in his bag.

“Gabe, if you don’t mind, I’m going to make a call,” Ed tells him as he drags his phone out of his bag. He hits the top portrait of his speed dial and holds his phone to his ear. Oswald picks up on the second ring. “Hello.”

“I assume this means Gabe’s picked you up,” Oswald tells him. He’s somewhere public based on his hushed tones. “I was told I have to  _ wait  _ until I can see the accountant.  _ Apparently  _ he’s gone to a brunch because his  _ daughter  _ is getting married, so I’m just sitting around in his office.  _ Waiting _ .”

“You’re bored,” Ed tells him.

“Terribly,” Oswald sighs. “I trust your day is more exciting, not that that sounds particularly difficult.”

“I suppose science has its own set of excitement, although I’m going to spend half the time performing spectroscopic analysis of the medication,” he says, feeling a full explanation trying to form, but he swallows down the urge to go into too much detail. Oswald’s not interested in his scientific research.

“I’m sure that would sound more exciting if I understood what that meant,” Oswald tells him.

“They let undergrads do this, so not really,” he admits. “And I’m comparing what I find to the papers. It’s only exciting if there’s something wrong.”

“Well in that case I hope your day is terribly boring. At least until I get there.”

“Good luck,” Ed tells Oswald, and he groans, “it can’t be that much longer.”

“Well if it  _ is  _ I’m sure you’ll hear about it,” Oswald mutters. “Tell Alfred I said hello.”

“I will.” Ed tells him, and he hangs up. Then, as an afterthought, he texts Oswald,  _ I’m planning on spending time outdoors. I think you should do the same. It’s rather nice out. _

He just gets a few frowning faces in response, and he chuckles.

Gabe rolls up the Wayne Manor driveway and Ed climbs out of the car, taking in a deep breath of fresh air and letting it out in a rush. Today is most definitely shaping up to be a four.

The front door of the Manor opens before he can even knock, and Bruce ushers Ed inside. “Before you meet with Alfred I'd appreciate some help.”

Ed looks down to his bag, and reaches inside for the small cold pack he's placed his blood sample into. “Could I store this in your freezer first? It's temperature sensitive.”

“What is it?”

“Blood,” he says, and Bruce's eyebrows shoot up. “My blood. A sample. I'm attempting to research the injection.”

“Right, of course,” Bruce says, looking a bit relieved. “We're working downstairs, and you can put it in the sample freezer there.”

“Perfect,” he says, nodding a thanks, and he follows Bruce through the Manor to the entrance to his Batcave. “What do you need assistance with?”

“The copycat.” Bruce opens the secret door and pinches the bridge of his nose. “He's mixing up his routine, going out during the  _ day _ at times. I think he's onto us, and he doesn't want to be caught.”

“Why continue going out then?”

“Why go out in the first place,” Bruce mutters, and they begin descending the stairs, “because he thinks he needs to, that the city needs him to do this. Admittedly, he has done a good job in his own right. No one's been hurt, and he's stopped multiple crimes all over the city.”

“You want me to find a pattern?” Ed's fairly certain Bruce should be able to figure out a mere teenager.

“I need you to do this because I'm beginning to think I'm ignoring clues because of a bias towards letting him continue, which is unacceptable. He's a minor, and if I allow him to continue he might get hurt or worse, and as much as I appreciate what he's done I can't let him risk his life.”

Bruce stands before a giant cork board on wheels and points out a few blurry photos, several witness accounts (all of which include calling him some form of mini Batman), and a map of his sightings. Ed takes a moment to just stare at the map, perusing the dates and times, and following the trail he's made.

“While you look I'll put your sample away,” Bruce tells him, and Ed gasps, he can't let his sample go bad before he even gets to  _ look _ , quickly handing it over and turning back to the board.

He digs into his bag and pulls out a large ball of string, attaching it to the first push pin and slowly following the trail, wrapping string around each pin until he has the full path outlined.

“Looks like you're having fun playing with your ball of yarn, kitten,”  _ he  _ says, and Ed finds the nearest reflective surface, a machine near the cork board with a glass window to see inside, and he scowls. “You know, cats, string. Come on you would have laughed at that before.”

“I'm following his path,” Ed whispers. He loops around a cluster of sightings in an alley. “Visualizing his methods.”

“Not going to get far like that. Let the master take a crack at it.”

“I am,” Ed says as he steps back, surveying the entire path and its crisscrossing pattern. He glances back to the mirrored surface of the machine and finds only himself, distorted from the slight distance and angle of the glass. “Hm, interesting,” he says to himself, shaking his head and returning to the map.

“Did you find something?” Bruce asks as he approaches, and Ed flounders for a moment before clearing his throat and nodding his head. “What is it?”

“I'm sure you noticed the clustering,” Ed says, and Bruce nods. Some of these alleys are somewhat familiar to me, but I can't place why.”

“You've lived in Gotham for a long time. Most of the streets are somewhat familiar.”

“No not in the  _ normal  _ sense of familiarity.” Ed points to one of the streets in the Narrows. “This is a known hotspot for crime. He's stopped four muggings there, and one assault.”

“I suspect the assault was also a potential mugging. The crimes are based solely on the victims’ accounts.”

Ed taps his chin, and then he snaps his fingers. “Do you have the paper? All of them. For last week.”

“Digitally, yes,” Bruce gestures over to a large desk with several monitors, and Ed sits, silently requesting use with a few mimed keyboard swipes, and Bruce nods. “What is your theory?”

“You'll see,” Ed mumbles, ticking away until he's pulled articles up on each screen. “Here.”

Bruce scans over the articles, reading occasional lines aloud (“wounded, critical care at Gotham General”, “stolen watch and wallet”) and he clicks his tongue, turning back to Ed and proclaiming, “he reads the Gotham Times.”

Ed smiles. “He targets areas with recent crime. It's simplistic, but clever. People tend to avoid spots where they know someone else has been a target, but only-”

“If they read the times,” Bruce finishes his thought. “I'll need to speak to the editor.” He claps Ed's shoulder and starts walking away. “Thank you!”

“You're welcome,” he calls after Bruce, and he waves as he jogs across the space towards the Batmobile. “And you thought I couldn't  _ see _ that,” Ed hisses at the one of the empty screens, although there's no shadowy Ed-like pest there to heckle him.

After a moment of contemplation Ed realizes he's alone in the Batcave. The faint sound of Bruce driving off and the hum of monitors and computer towers is all he can hear in the large space, that and his breathing. There's something almost overwhelming about the lab space, and Ed decides to keep himself firmly in place until someone shows up to confirm his permission to use the instruments he can see along the far wall.

Or, at least, it was his plan to wait, but he's drawn over to the vast array of machines and instruments, and Ed takes his time, perusing the pipettes and examining the large centrifuge and spectroscopy machine along a false wall. Everything is fairly new, certainly nothing as old and decrepit as the lab at the GCPD, or even his old lab in college. Nothing's held together with tape and misplaced hope, and he can't imagine anything needs smacked around to get it running properly.

“Making yourself at home, Mr. Nygma?” Alfred asks, and Ed whirls around, gaping at him, and Alfred merely chuckles. “If you're done familiarizing yourself with the lab equipment I believe master Bruce will appreciate some answers by the time he returns.”

“Yes,” Ed agrees as he straightens his clothing. “Confirmation of the structure shouldn't take more than a couple hours. Do you have a chalkboard? I think I'd like to draw out the molecule in question.”

“Master Bruce prefers to use wipe off boards. There's one over there,” he gestures to the far corner. “Shouldn't be anything too important but if he's written save anywhere near something I'd leave it be.”

Ed nods and sets his bag on a free chair near the workbench. He drags his tablet out of his bag and opens up the files for the drug, confirming he has a structure model to copy, and he finds a board with a clean side and gets to work.

There's something calming about drawing the structure. He takes care to copy each line correctly, noting the non-carbon atoms with different colors of markers and making a few personal notations by the string of aromatic rings along one chain. He remembers doing this often during his schooling, reserving a private study room in the library and drawing structures and mechanisms along the multiple chalk boards, blocking out requires speech courses and useless general education classes in favor of drawing the structure for tetrahydrofuran over and over again, just to feel the chalk glide over the black surface.

Once the molecule base is complete Ed adds in the stereochemistry, noting possible boat positions and a clean, rather appealing mirroring of the two halves of the active ingredient. He adds a simplified mechanism chain to the far right end of the board, from the moment it enters a body to the moment it interacts  _ just right  _ with Nora's ailing lungs, and he smiles.

“Quite the elaborate drawing you've made,” Alfred comments, coming to stand beside Ed and his work. “Learn anything?”

“It's beautiful,” he says quietly.

“Not quite the sentiment I'd use but to each his own I suppose.”

“No, see, there's a mirror of the two halves. Now normally, I'd expect the halves to exist independently, like so,” he draws a dotted line between the two halves, “but this one little manganese, well,” he chuckles, “he's the unsung hero of this story. The mechanism requires the two halves can split in the body. The manganese interacts eith-”

“Mr. Nygma, apologies,” Alfred coughs, “I do appreciate your attempts to enlighten me, but I am not an organic chemist. I'm afraid most of this is going over my head.”

“Right,” Ed bites his lip.  _ Isolating,  _ Bruce told Ed. He hadn't mentioned it happening within his group. “Well, in any case, confirming the structure will rely on the manganese, these rings, and the nitrogens.”

He circles the three key elements and stands back. Ed's fingers twitch with the urge to draw it again, but he places the marker in his cardigan pocket and turns back to the workbench.

-

“Good news,” he tells his recorder. “Following analysis Alfred and I have determined that the drug we were sent is, in fact, the same drug from the paper and trials. I have given the mechanism my personal seal of approval, and Bruce and I both agree that, barring Victor Fries’ opinion, the treatment shows great promise if Nora Fries were to begin taking the medication.”

“Do you always do that?” Alfred asks, though his inquiry isn't malicious. “Take verbal notes, I mean.”

“I grew accustomed to taking notes at the GCPD. Recording notes is simpler when I'm wearing personal protective equipment.” And his handwriting is somewhat illegible at times.

“Nothing wrong with being thorough,” Alfred shrugs. “Looks like we're done here then.”

“If I may remind you,” Ed pipes up, “I requested use to examine the blood sample I brought.”

“Certainly. Just don't burn out any motors on any of the equipment.” Alfred tells him, and Ed nods.

He's missed this, just a little bit. Working with his hands is very satisfying, and the identity of his mystery drug is a life based puzzle to solve. Detective work tends to keep him tethered to his desk or a chair, and the same goes for research. He'll need to figure out more reasons to work in a lab space again.

As he's setting up a small centrifuge, sample in a cool water bath to slow thaw the liquid, his phone begins ringing, and Ed removes a glove long enough to answer the call and put it on speaker. “This is Ed Nygma.”

“Ed,” Oswald practically coos. He's in a good mood. “I trust things are going well at the Manor?”

“I've completed Bruce's task as planned, and am working on my personal project.” He pulls out two small centrifuge bottles and labels them with tape (sample and balance) and sets them in a bottle rack. “I don't have a time estimate for this project.”

“Well it's lunch time,” Oswald tells him, and apparently it's awoken something in Ed's gut, because his stomach growls. “And I've had a  _ pleasant  _ time with the accountant, shockingly, and wanted to celebrate.”

“You have a property?”

“I have several options that I'm more than capable of renovating. I just have to pick  _ one  _ and I'm golden.”

“That's excellent,” Ed says, eyeing his sample. It isn't thawed, and it won't be for some time, and he  _ is  _ hungry. “Alright. I'll get lunch.”

“Excellent, because we're already outside. And I'm  _ famished,  _ so I would appreciate it if you moved swiftly.”

-

Ed scribbles in his personal notebook. Content. Pleased. Mild disappointment. 3.

“I thought you weren’t working after dinner,” Oswald says idly, sipping at a glass of white wine and listening to a play on his headphones, although apparently not very loud.

“I didn’t have time to make notes this afternoon,” he says. I don’t want to forget.” Oswald shrugs and turns the page of the play’s art book. “It’s personal, not work.”

“If you want to work that’s  _ fine _ , I suppose.” Oswald pauses his play and removes his headphones. “Are you working?”

“It’s just this,” he hands Oswald the tiny spiral notebook. Oswald holds it with both hands, one finger brushing across the cover. “It isn’t work.”

“Am I expected to read this?”

“If you would like,” Ed says, swallowing back the urge to tell him nevermind and shove the notebook under the mattress. “Keep in mind it's rather personal.”

Oswald laughs to himself, and he flips open the notebook, but then his face falls, and he slowly flips through each page, glancing over at Ed on occasion, and at one point he grabs Ed's knee and squeezes. Ed fidgets while he watches, and as Oswald nears the current day his expression softens. “Thank you.” Oswald hands back the notebook.

“For what?”

“I can imagine sharing that was,” Oswald pauses, “difficult. It was reassuring though. So, thank you.” He squeezes Ed's hand. “Today was only a three?”

“It's an average, and the scale is negative ten to positive ten. Three is actually rather positive.” He'd nearly gotten a four out of today, excluding the mismanagement of his time.

“Well, I have confidence that, given enough time, I could get today up to  _ at least  _ a four.”

“I don't doubt you,” Ed says, smiling. “Or, perhaps I do, but not because of any lack of ability.”

“Oh?” Oswald asks, “why's that?”

“I didn't have time to extract the chemical sample today.”

“But we chose an architect,” Oswald reminds him. “And if I'm not mistaken you saved the day twice at Wayne Manor.”

“I suppose. Although I could have made it three had I,” he slows to a stop as Oswald moves in closer, a hand on his thigh and trailing upward, and he licks his lips, “ _ extracted  _ the chemical.”

“If you so much as  _ think  _ of a pun about extracting when I'm trying to make a pass at you then you're going to sleep in your library.”

-

“April 15th, I am suspending research in order to join Oswald on a viewing of several properties.”

He puts the recorder away and Oswald smiles at him. “I don't want to sound  _ sappy  _ but this is the first time in ages that my project doesn't feel like an impossibility.”

“It was never impossible,” Ed tells Oswald. “Just difficult. I have complete faith in your ability to construct an aquarium.”

“As long as this city doesn't decide to ream me again I should have no trouble.” Oswald says quietly, most of his focus dedicated to the rear passenger window as Gabe approaches the East docks.

East docks.

“Oswald, you are aware that we're driving  _ towards  _ the East end.”

“That is what I told Gabe to do, so yes,” he snaps back, laughing once. “You're looking at the new potential sites for the Gotham aquarium. Although I'm not sold on using such a bland name.”

“You can name the wings if the name isn't changeable, but Oswald,” he peers across the car and out Oswald's window, “this is Barbara's territory.”

“Yes, yes it is, Ed. Try to not get too worked up about it though. We're meeting with a broker.”

He scowls out at the large brick warehouses and docks, scanning for her all the same. “Her broker?”

“An affiliated broker. I don't think I'd call him  _ hers _ necessarily. He did agree to sell one of her old warehouses to me after all.”

“She's going to be angry.”

“Yes and it will be a  _ shame  _ when she can't do a damn thing about it, although I'm planning on sending a little card to the family of this unfortunate soul, because she won't be happy to hear that he's signing over the deed to me.” He sits up straighter, smug and preening. “I can't think of a better dig at Barbara Keane than taking something of hers and filling it with horrible, noisy children. Not even Gotham's underworld would forgive any retaliation.”

“Certainly not on site,” Ed agrees, “but if you have no objections I'll be increasing surveillance on her.”

“I was actually going to suggest you do just that. I'm not  _ foolish  _ Ed. I know what she's capable of.”

Ed scoots closer and bumps their shoulders together. “I thought we were retired,” Ed mentions. “Not that she doesn't deserve to be brought down a peg or two.”

“Nothing about this is illegal. I'm buying a property that's for sale. If Barbara wants to take it personally that's her decision.” He turns to Ed. “She's not even  _ using  _ it anyway. It's not my fault her industry relied upon mine to truly thrive.”

Ed knows about as well as anyone that Barbara will take this personally, that everyone involved  _ knows  _ Oswald well enough to know he's jumping at the chance to take over a little more of her territory, even if only in name, and that she'll find a way to retaliate one way or another, and it's up to him to figure out what it is before anything irreparable happens.

-

“April 20th, I've found time to return to the Manor to complete by sample extraction. I am suspending all other priorities until after this is complete.”

He's asserting himself today, waving to Alfred as he enters the Batcave and setting up his station along the far wall, and no amount of requests or prodding will drag him away from his research.

“I will document my process in order to reference back should the extraction method become useful in the future.”

“Do you require anything before you begin, Mr. Nygma?” Alfred asks from across the room. “Spare filtration pump? Separation funnel?”

“I believe I have everything I need,” he replies, “but thank you. I will be playing some music if you're not opposed.”

“As long as it's not that blasted metal shrieking Master Bruce insists upon you're more than welcome.”

He's certain some quiet electronic music won't disrupt Alfred's work, whatever it happens to be, and Ed sets up his portable speaker, connecting his tablet and starting up his productivity playlist. Then he pulls his sample from the freezer and gets to work.

“Man you're putting a lot of faith in something you haven't done in  _ years _ .”

“I separated poison from a sample last year,” he whispers at the reflective surface of his tablet. He feels mildly betrayed by the object.

“Yeah but you know fuck all about this chemical,” the shadow reminds him, smirking, “bet you five bucks the density is all screwy.”

“That's why I'm going to centrifuge,” he says, attempting to turn it into a sensible note to himself and not a snippy retort towards something that isn't even  _ real _ . “I will begin the extraction by separating according to density, then I will assay each layer to isolate the chemical. Following this, I will use spectroscopy to determine structure.”

It's a simple yet elegant method, one Ed learned in college and used throughout his early career. The sample thaws, and he gently inverts a few times before beginning the centrifugation. He's confident this will work, and once he knows the chemical makeup he can begin to figure out how Strange came to have it in his possession.

“Looking kind of jittery science boy.”

“Shut up,” he snaps, whispering. “It's merely excitement.”

That pompous asshole is going to regret trying to take control of Edward E. Nygma.

Or at least, that's his intention, but two hours in he's swearing at his assays loud enough that Alfred comes over, asking, “what seems to be the trouble?”

“Why isn't it  _ there _ ?” Ed Huff's as he rereads the results. “Alfred, repeat this test for me, if you can. I need to determine what layer the chemical is found in.”

“You're sure it's here?” Alfred asks as he puts on a pair of gloves.

“It was present in the test I performed four months ago.”

“Degraded, perhaps? Or the test used up what was there?”

Ed shakes his head. “I froze it immediately. And this is a second sample.” Ed crumples the readouts with a frustrated growl and throws them on the floor. “It should  _ be  _ here. There's no reason for it to have  _ disappeared _ !”

“Maybe you're not cut out for this sort of work,”  _ he  _ says, and Ed huffs a few times, glaring at his tablet screen. “Don't be so touchy. We both knew this wasn't going to work.”

Ed swallows down his reply, and stands by Alfred, watching him set up the test, but his heart isn't in it, too focused on the angry panic building in his chest. Because now he's failed, and he can't get another sample, and that means Strange bested him, indirectly or otherwise. His science trumps Ed's and  _ that's _ what sends him scurrying out of the room with his phone already pressed to his ear, a desperate plea to, “please, if you're not busy Os, come get me,” and he sinks to the floor in the foyer, head in his hands and mocking laughter in his ears.

-

“April 23rd,” Ed says into his recorder. He's not sure what comes next, but it's the first day he's felt motivated enough to pick it up, so he tries to form some sort of explanation. “I'm not working.”

It might be more accurate to say he can't work right now, but he doesn't correct the statement. Ed drops the recorder to the floor beside the lounger and rewraps the blanket up and around his arms, hiding his chin in the bunched up edge and staring out at the blurry spines of his books. He managed to relocate today, which he considers a roaring success. Today, so far at least, is a negative four. He feels slightly more functional, but not enough to actually  _ function  _ other than sitting sideways in his chair and huddling under a warm flannel blanket.

“I have to be honest, not finding you in the bedroom gave me a mild heart attack,” Oswald says as he enters the room, and Ed shrugs one shoulder, looking up when Oswald stands in front of him.

“I moved.”

“I can see that,” Oswald says lightly. “Are you enjoying the change of scenery?”

Enjoying? That feels a bit too strong a word, but it feels a bit lighter in his library, better, at least relative to yesterday. “There’s more sunlight.”

“Don't let it fool you. It's  _ freezing  _ outside,” Oswald says as he makes Ed scoot back just a bit so he can sit on the edge of the chair.

“It's warm in here,” he says. He has his blanket, and Oswald's turned up the heating if the temperature has indeed dropped. “Are you staying here?” He'd like that, he decides. “Unless you're busy.”

“I am  _ far  _ from busy,” he assures Ed, and he runs his fingers through Ed's greasy hair. “You never did say what brought this on, not that you  _ have  _ to tell me, but if you wanted,” he trails off, and Ed closes his eyes.

“I failed.”

“Alright.” Oswald pats the back of his head. “Is that all?”

“My sample degraded, or, perhaps it never had anything to find in the first place. I'm not clear on the specifics. Alfred told me he would keep trying, but it's a lost cause.” He takes a shaky breath and sighs. “Strange has bested me.”

Oswald's hand tightens on Ed's arm, and he pulls Ed just a bit closer, cradling the back of his head and rubbing his temple. “That man has  _ not  _ bested you. He got  _ lucky. _ Don't give him any more credit than that.”

“I can't get another sample. It certainly  _ feels  _ like I've been bested.”

“You are  _ smarter  _ than Strange. I'm sure you'll figure out something and we can rub it in his face.” Oswald's grip softens on Ed's arm, and he switches to petting Ed's hair. “If you're in need of something to distract yourself the interior graphic designer wants to get started on some of the displays. I'll be needing a few  _ riddles  _ here and there, to entice children into learning something for once.”

Ed nods. “Not today, but yes, I can do that.”

-

“April 29th, the search for Bruce's copycat has reached a standstill, and I've been called in to meet with Jim and Bruce in Jim's office. We're going to have a private brainstorming session in order to make a plan moving forward.”

He stares at the GCPD building and fidgets with his recorder in one hand, his other firmly wrapped around his new set of keys. There's a few kinks to work out, the brake isn't as sensitive as he'd like, but he drove himself here, and considering it's the most he's accomplished in nearly two weeks he's not going to write it off as a failure just because he has to brake a half block sooner than he's used to. He takes a breath and dials Jim's office number, waiting while it rings, until Jim answers with a curt hello.

“Jim,” he says, “I am downstairs.”

There's a brief pause. “Was the really so hard?”

_ Terribly _ , he thinks, but that's the insecurities talking. He rubs a hand over his two week beard and answers, “no, I suppose you're right. But now I have to  _ wait _ .”

“Bruce is coming down,” Jim tells him, and Ed nods to himself. “Just sit tight.”

“Okay,” he agrees, and Ed hangs up, watching out the window for Bruce to escort him inside.

“Or, here's a fun thought, what if they're  _ lying  _ to you? You're the only one risking your neck to have this little date.”

“Meeting,” he tells the rear view mirror. “They wouldn't do that. Oswald wouldn't stand for it, and they're, we're  _ allies _ .” He hates the part of himself that wouldn't just say  _ friend  _ like he'd wanted. “They won't turn on me like that.”

“Keep telling yourself that in transport,” he laughs, and Ed fights the urge to rip the rear view mirror off his car.

He watches officers mill about, some going to their cars, some entering the building, and so far no one’s paid any attention to the four door sedan in the visitor parking space, but that doesn’t mean no one’s  _ noticed  _ him, and all it takes is one hot shot, one older officer with a grudge to call him in and boom, he’s back in Arkham “where he belongs”.

There’s a quick series of knocks on his window and he jumps, gasping, heart rate skyrocketing and he pants, staring out at Bruce. He’s smiling apologetically, and Ed sighs, opening the door and stepping out of his car. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Bruce says.

“I am lost without moving an inch, my thoughts in a faraway place and time,” he says, waving it off and opening the rear door to grab his bag. “Daydreaming.”

“The back stairwell is clear. I received a key card from Commissioner Gordon when I was approved to aid the police.”

Ed wants to ask how he can get this kind of approval, but what he could really go for is a stiff drink, if Jim has anything in his office, so he nods and follows Bruce into the back stairwell. It is in fact empty, and they have no trouble reaching Jim’s office, where he’s currently grumbling to someone on the phone. He waves them both in and Bruce shuts the door.

“Yeah, I  _ know _ , sir. Yes, thank you. We’re increasing our patrol. Thank you.” He hangs up and covers his face, groaning and sitting back in his chair. “Please,  _ please  _ tell me either of you has an idea. The Mayor is making a valiant effort to tear me a new one over the damn phone.”

“He hasn’t been active for nearly two weeks,” Bruce says. “But we also have not seen any reports of teenagers being found hurt or killed that fit his description. It’s possible he’s just grown tired of the physical and emotional strain required to perform vigilante work.”

“No,” Jim says, shaking his head. “No offense Bruce, but this kid is like you, and would  _ you  _ turn away?”

“You know the answer to that, Jim,” Bruce says.

“Then he’s still out there.” Jim sits back. “We just don’t know where.”

“I played the trumpet in band,” Ed says, and the two of them look at him. “Um, in high school. Only freshman year, but-”

“Ed, is there a reason you’re bringing this up now?” Jim asks.

“He’s in high school,” Ed says. “When I was in band, there was a group trip,” he waves his hands, “a competition, I didn’t go, not important.” His trumpet was run over by some of the seniors and he couldn’t afford a new rental. “It was over a week.”

“He might be in a class trip,” Bruce reiterates, and Ed nods. “That’s very possible.”

“We need to look at every high school in Gotham,” Jim says, “figure out which ones have trips and to where, and we can narrow down where he goes to school. Nice work, Ed,” he says, and Ed smiles. “Who knew one of us being a band nerd would be the break in this case.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Alfred, please repeat the message Commissioner Gordon gave you for me.”

“Certainly, sir. He and Mr. Nygma have determined that all schools have completed any sponsored trips, and Commissioner Gordon suspects we will begin seeing him out again soon, if not tonight. Mr. Nygma is monitoring the papers, and he believes the Narrows are a likely location given a recent influx.” Alfred pauses. “He also stressed the importance of  _ finding  _ him this time, but I’ll leave out the expletives I’m sure he didn’t mean to say aloud.”

“Excellent, I’m in the Narrows,” he says. Specifically, he’s on a roof in the Narrows, watching a few crime heavy spots near the downtown bridge. “I’m going to have to let you go. I haven’t gotten ahold of Selina yet to see if she’ll help.”

“Best of luck, sir.”

He isn’t sure which Alfred means, but he assumes he’s talking about finding his copycat. Although Bruce would like some extra luck thrown his way in regards to Selina, who’s been somewhat unavailable at best and somewhat standoffish at worst. He assumes (hopes) it's related to fencing, which wouldn't be an uncalled for assumption. She tends to push him away when she's doing anything he wouldn't or shouldn't condone.

It's nearing midnight, a prime hour for the copycat to come out, if he's planning on resuming his nightly attempts to run Bruce out of crime to stop. A quiet night, calm, and somewhat warm. Summer is taking its sweet time affecting Gotham to its full potential, and that suits Bruce just fine, because bulletproof armor isn't exactly breathable on some of the hotter nights. He's just thankful it isn't raining.

There's quiet patter to his left, small feet padding along the rooftops, and Bruce ducks down, watching a lone figure moving in the faint glow from the streetlights, clad in black and a pair of goggles, black plastic hiding his eyes and not much else. He'll need to recommend a bit more obscuring eyewear if his copycat ever fights crime in the future.

He runs at the edge, and Bruce's pulse quickens with the need to catch him, already watching him tumble off the high ledge, but he sails across the gap to the next roof, and Bruce gets up from his perch, sprinting after him, pulse quick with the thrill of a chase, made more exciting because his opponent appears rather adept at traversing across the rooftops.

He keeps one ear tuned to the surrounding environment, listening for any crime, but so far the streets are quiet. Not too quiet, because there's still the sounds of people, of cars and crowds and the Flea, but there's also the sounds of his feet on brick and mortar, and the young man's feet quietly padding along, graceful and unnaturally quiet, and Bruce wonders just  _ where  _ this young man learned to move so silently.

But he needs to stop observing him and actually  _ catch  _ him, so Bruce quickens his pace, barreling full speed over the gap separating his building from the young man's, and his impact with the next roof is loud, enough to startle the young man, and he turns, mouth open and falling into an uneasy defense stance (“Holy cow! You're-!”), but Bruce is ready, and he's also about twice his size, so he has no trouble subduing him with a simple arm twist and a pair of Bat cuffs onto his wrists, in front, because Bruce doesn't actually plan to bring him in, but he wants this to feel real.

“Hey wait,  _ I'm  _ not a bad guy,” he says, struggling with his bind and gaping at Bruce, “I know I'm wearing black but so are  _ you _ .”

“Vigilantism is against the law,” Bruce rasps.

“But that's what  _ you  _ do,” he says, struggling, and he moves a little too strong when he struggles and falls back on his ass. His face turns as red as his undershirt, which Bruce hadn't noticed until they were face to face.

Bruce kneels down so they're eye to eye, well eye to goggles, and he explains, “I'm working with the GCPD. What you're doing is incredibly dangerous, and against the law. You might have helped people-”

“I helped tons of people!” He exclaims. “Not that I need credit. I do it to  _ help _ .”

“How old are you?” he asks.

He grimaces and looks away from Bruce, cringing when he whispers, “fifteen.”

“You're too  _ young _ ,” Bruce says. “Even though you're helping,” which makes him smile, and Bruce pauses after he tells him this, because it sounds like he's thankful (he might be, he's not sure), “you're a minor. The GCPD will never be able to condone your actions while you're not a legal adult.”

“Then I just won't get caught,” he says, pulling his legs in and resting his hands on them, pointedly ignoring the cuffs, “and I'm careful. I've hardly ever gotten hurt.”

Bruce recognizes how slippery a slope  _ that  _ is, since he's hardly ever broken any bones on patrol. Pretty soon he'll have hardly ever gotten  _ shot  _ on patrol. “Until you're eighteen you're not getting any GCPD support. And that means that being out here, stopping crimes, is still considered illegal. You can get yourself hurt or  _ worse _ , and none of us want that. If I catch you out here I  _ will  _ have to arrest you.”

He scowls, and he looks so young. He  _ is  _ so young, half Bruce's age, and he's small and slender. Bruce understands why Selina called him tiny. If he'd been told to guess an age for the young man he would've gone with thirteen, fourteen at most.

“Who are you?” Bruce asks.

“Who are  _ you _ ?” he snaps back, and then he blushes again. “Sorry.”

“You want your identity to remain a secret, which is important, but I need to know who you are, and when you  _ are  _ eighteen, we'll have a different conversation. Once you're an adult I might consider having a partner.” He means it too. After seeing him in action tonight Bruce is fairly impressed with how well he gets around. He has a lot of potential.

He uses both hands to shove up his goggles and looks at Bruce, saying, “Richard Grayson. People call me Dick but sometimes I think it's not for the nickname.” He gets a scared, panicked look on his face. “So are you  _ really  _ going to bring me in? Please say no. Oh my God, my parents are going to  _ kill  _ me.”

Bruce laughs. “Richard Grayson.” He commits it to memory so he can tell Jim later, then he undoes the cuffs. “I'm not bringing you in tonight. This is your only warning.” He stands and offers a hand, and Richard takes it, accepting help off the ground and brushing off his clothes. “You shouldn't wear red over your chest like that,” he indicates the V shape his jacket makes with the red filling in the V. “It draws attention to a potentially vulnerable area.”

“Yeah, but it kind of goes with my theme,” he says.

“You have a theme?” he asks. He had assumed the copycat comment was somewhat literal and not just relating to fighting crime.

“I'm Robin,” he says proudly, “because I can fly through the air like a bird.” Bruce doesn't comment on the relative fragility of the average robin. “Should I disguise my voice like you do? Or does that start hurting?”

“Terribly,” he says in his normal voice. Richard laughs. “I wouldn't recommend it.” He smiles. “Now, I need you to promise me you'll stop doing this, for now,” he pauses so he can grab a small communicator from his belt, “but I want you to be another set of eyes and ears out on the street. Just tap this button and it will call me directly, and I'll do what I can to come running to aid those in need.”

-

He’s telling Jim Gordon the good news after breakfast.

The news, of course, being Richard Grayson. Bruce took some time last night to look into the young man and discovered his family works for the circus, acrobats, and Richard himself is part of the acts. It explains his skill moving about the city, and his current lack of fighting ability. He’s already thinking of giving Richard a workout plan, if he is in fact interested in joining Bruce once he’s an adult. Three years is plenty of time to build up his strength.

But first, he’s hungry, and he slept somewhat poorly, so he takes his time eating a bowl of cereal while drinking coffee and watching the news. Although watching might be a bit generous, since he’s only caught a few words at best.

It’s possible he might want to consider some sort of sleep aid. The lack of focus is going to start hindering his work ethic, which is already somewhat abysmal.

Bruce glances at the clock on the stove and squints when half the numbers look like eyes. Seven. It’s seven. He  _ also _ considers implementing a late starting work day but dismisses the idea on the grounds that it’s fine if  _ he’s  _ late in the morning, because everyone else seems capable of getting there on time.

He takes another drink of his coffee and turns back to the news, and he nearly spits out his mouthful when he sees a ruined building on the screen. Bruce swallows hard, coughing at the bitter aftertaste as he nearly inhales, and turns up the sound.

“... happened in the early hours of the morning. PharmaGo, one of the United States leading pharmaceutical companies, was devastated by a dual attack caused by two well known Gotham rogues, Firefly and Mr. Freeze. It is thought that several of the employees remain trapped inside, if they’ve managed to survive the onslaught from these two dangerous-”

Bruce turns off the television and takes a breath, then he sprints across the tile floor towards his study and opens the doorway leading to the Batcave.

-

He drives too fast, too reckless, but he doesn’t  _ care _ . Bruce takes the back roads for a reason, speeds nearly twice the limit towards the outskirts of Gotham and then beyond, out to the little backwater town near PharmaGo’s ruined campus. The main building is ablaze, fire trucks desperately dousing flames fueled by numerous chemicals. He avoids the crowds, parks far away and speeds along fences and behind walls, seeking out the active sites of destruction.

“Alfred, is there any news from Commissioner Gordon?” he asks, speeding along towards a smaller building, half of it on fire, the other a block of ice, and a melted, rended mess in the middle where ice rapidly melts and takes the walls down with it. Freeze is using one of his more destructive compounds, and that knowledge makes Bruce move carefully, but not quietly. He can feel the rage roiling around in his stomach; a tinny, loud ringing overtakes his hearing as he moves into the labspace and finds two scientists trapped under rubble, long gone and beyond Bruce’s help.

“VICTOR!” he yells, fury urging him to punch at the wall, at  _ something  _ to try and take away some of the edge, but he saves it, bottles it in for now so he can channel it later, and he continues into the lab, breath condensing on the frozen half of the space.

He can’t descend into the basement without risking himself or the integrity of the building, but he  _ can  _ do his best to find anyone still alive on the main floors. He just needs to move quickly. He needs more  _ time _ .

A wall nearly collapses and Bruce is forced to abandon this building, anger boiling as a wall crumbles away.

“ _ Master Bruce _ ,” Alfred says, and by his tone Bruce assumes not for the first time.

“Yes Alfred,” he says, taking a breath as he reaches the fresh air of the campus again. He starts moving towards one of the office complexes. “Apologies.”

“No need,” he says, sounding relieved, “I was only trying to say that he hasn’t had time to address the issue. It is, after all, outside of Gotham. I believe the city is allocating officers to aid in the fallout, but you’re going to have to work with the local force if you want any of their case information today.”

“Noted, but that isn't my focus. I’m looking for Victor Fries,” he says. Firefly he can understand. She’s been working for others for years, but Victor? He’s been quiet for  _ years _ . He  _ asked Bruce for help _ . “Are there any reports on either rogue?”

“It appears Firefly was seen leaving the scene sometime this morning, but no report on Victor Fries. It’s possible he’s still on the campus. Do exercise caution, Master Bruce. I understand your anger, but don’t let it cloud your judgement.”

“I won’t Alfred,” he assures him. “I’m going to move quietly. I believe he might be in the office building.”

Because there isn’t any fire, and there’s been a definite separation between the fire and ice damage done to the buildings. Victor Fries could easily overheat in Firefly’s blaze even if he’s wearing his suit. He’s intelligent in his destruction, focusing on structure dependent beams and load bearing walls. Bruce is well aware that if Victor Fries wants something destroyed he knows just how to do it, and fast.

Bruce needs to be careful, because if Victor’s decided to destroy the company responsible for his wife’s potential successful treatment it might mean he’s in the mood to go after Bruce too for suggesting the treatment in the first place. His motivations are unclear. The damage is widespread and devastating. Bruce has yet to find any signs that anyone still trapped in the buildings might have survived.

He’s going to have a very difficult time not punching Victor in the face the moment he sees him.

Bruce moves downstairs in the office building, following a trail of dripping chemicals and frosted over spots, mindful of the weakened walls on the outer portion of the building and the untouched, intact walls of the interior. It appears that something’s gone wrong with his freeze gun if it’s leaking, and he might’ve moved to the basement for cover. Plus it's the least damaged part of the building, and again, Victor isn't an idiot. Because of this most of the Gotham police force wouldn’t even  _ dream  _ of confronting Mr. Freeze head on, and Bruce hopes that extends to forces outside of Gotham as well.

The drips lead down the halls to a sub basement, and then into what appears to be a storage room in the back of the building. It’s climate controlled, and filled with sensitive documents and servers. Bruce finds Victor Fries here, and ducks behind a server tower, watching him tinker with his freeze gun and mutter to himself, cursing when a tube pops loose and hisses as it releases compressed air.

“You’re getting sloppy,” he rasps. Victor turns abruptly, holding up his useless weapon and backing away a few steps. “Why did you do this Victor?”

“Batman,” he says, looking left and right, but there aren’t any alternative exits. “It seems appropriate, seeing you here now.”

“Why did you  _ do  _ this Victor,” he reiterates, approaching a few steps and knocking the gun to the floor, satisfied when a few pieces break off upon impact. Victor holds his hands up in surrender. “These people save  _ countless  _ lives with their research. They found a treatment for Nora. You had no reason to destroy their work.”

“You’re not privy to my motives, Batman,” he says, mouth quirking. “I-” he winces and tears a communicator out of his ear. “Leave, Batman.”

“You’ve killed multiple people with no discernable reason or motive. I’m not going anywhere without you in custody.” Bruce pulls a pair of Bat cuffs off his belt and moves forward, but Victor sidesteps, grabbing at his own waist and pulling a couple freeze grenades off his belt. “Victor I suggest you stop fighting. You’re making this worse for yourself, and I can assure you it’s already far from favorable for you.”

“Leave,” he says, wincing again, “Batman,  _ Bruce _ , leave. You no not-” he tears off his goggles, light eyes blown wide, and throws them aside. “Leave,” he whispers, pained, and then his face goes slack.

Strange. Bruce only has a moment to dodge out of the way of the freeze grenade before it impacts the tower behind him, freezing the electrical components and shattering the servers when Victor swings a fist at the tower. He grabs a smoke bomb from his belt and tosses it at Victor’s feet, filling the room with smoke and relying on the dim light from the hall to make his way out of the building.

“Alfred, we have a complication,” he says quietly once he’s reached the main floor. “Victor Fries is under Strange’s control.” He finds cover behind a cubicle and assesses the surroundings. It’s fairly light from the large windows, and focus remains on the rest of the buildings, which Bruce is thankful for. He can hear Victor coughing as he leaves the server room, entering the main room and apparently looking for Bruce on Strange’s orders.

“Keep clear of his gun, Master Bruce.”

“It’s broken,” he whispers, moving to a crouch and peering around the cubicle to watch Victor move around the room. “He’s down to his grenades.”

He’s not worried about the grenades either; he’s worried about Victor. How long has he been under Strange’s control? He clearly tried to fight it off, maybe countless times, but is unable to fully break free. Bruce feels a queasy, slick guilt replacing the fury. Strange must have ordered the two of them to destroy PharmaGo. But why? What does he gain?

Bruce pulls the taser off his belt and licks his lips, ready to snap Victor out of Strange’s control. He’ll move behind the cubicles, keep plenty of clutter between the two of them until he can get close enough to shock him, then the taser should undo Strange’s control. He’s ready to catch him to avoid any head injury, and he’ll need to be sure to watch out for the suit in case he can’t get to part of Victor’s skin easily.

The suit.

The suit keeps Victor  _ alive _ . It’s summer, and they’re a decent distance from Gotham. And Bruce takes a moment to picture a worst case scenario, one where he’s holding Victor, watching the suit fail and all his cooling technology turn off in an instant, leaving him slowly overheating in his suit while Bruce struggles to the car, and then to the Manor, or possibly some sort of restaurant, or Victor’s hideout if he stays lucid enough to tell Bruce where to  _ go _ , and-

He can’t bring him in today.

Bruce puts the taser away. “Alfred, we need to begin preparing a cold room at the Manor.” He grabs another smoke bomb and throws it, disorienting Victor while he sprints out of the building and begins moving towards the Batmobile. “Victor’s suit may be disrupted if I shock him, and I can’t take him in quietly unless I can disrupt Strange’s control, but I can’t risk his life without an adequate backup plan.”

“I’ll begin working with a contractor, Master Bruce. What is our plan moving forward?”

“I’m going to speak with Commissioner Gordon. He needs to know Victor isn’t a willing participant in this attack. Following that, getting the cold room set up is a high priority. I would appreciate it if we could complete construction within the month.”

“I will do my best, Master B.”

-

Bruce enters the GCPD administrative building out of uniform, clammy hands clenching at his sides and thoughts racing, and hurries up the stairs to Jim's office. Priority one, Richard Grayson. He'll need good news, and this is most definitely good. Priority two, Victor Fries. He needs their help. If Jim Gordon knows of any alternative cold room they can use Bruce can free him of Strange's influence faster, and the sooner Strange doesn't have power over someone as potentially destructive as Victor Fries the better.

He knocks twice, and Jim welcomes him in, then gestures to a chair once Bruce opens the door. “I need to finish up a couple things quick.”

“Of course,” he says, taking a moment to finish organizing his own thoughts. Richard. Victor. Then, they'll find a way to move forward. They always do.

Jim stacks a few papers together and puts them in his out box, then he folds his hands and rests his chin on them. “You might want to start,” he tells Bruce. “Then I have a few things to say.”

Bruce's neck feels ice cold as an unfamiliar dread trails down his spine, but he nods. “I made contact with the teenage vigilante. He calls himself Robin, but his name is Richard Grayson.”

“He's done with crime?”

“I told him to just call me if he sees anything.”

“Fine,” Jim says. He writes something down and asks, “that everything for you?”

Bruce shakes off the disappointment at Jim's lack of excitement regarding Bruce's success. He has more important matters to address. “Victor Fries is under Strange's control. He forced Victor to demolish the buildings at a pharmaceutical company responsible for creating Nora's potential treatment.” Bruce watches Jim for any reaction, and he gets nothing. Bruce takes a calming breath. “We need some sort of cold room for him if I'm going to free him from Strange's control. The shock might disrupt his suit and stop it from keeping him cool. Without the suit he could die.”

“Yeah, I know about Freeze.”

“Is something wrong?” Bruce asks. “Aside from Strange.”

“What did you say to Victor the last time you saw him? Zsasz, not Fries.”

Bruce recalls the conversation easily enough. Victor saw Strange at Arkham, and Bruce recommended he remain alert. “I told him to stay vigilant, and to tell us if he saw Strange again. We also spoke about his medication, which I suspect is what you're wanting to hear about.”

“What  _ about  _ his medication?”

Bruce can't shake the feeling of sitting in a headmaster's office, being scolded for fighting. He sighs, “I recommended he refrain from taking his meds.” Jim rubs his eyes. He doesn't say anything for nearly a minute, and the seconds ticking by increase Bruce's heart rate exponentially. “When he saw Strange I was concerned. The medication makes him groggy. He needs to remain alert.”

“ _ Bruce _ ,” Jim says, sharp and scolding, “he is in a facility for mental health. He's there because he  _ needs  _ to be, and you told him to  _ stop taking his meds _ .” Jim's nearly shouting, and Bruce feels the urge to deflect, to explain his intentions more thoroughly, but he continues. “I got a call from Arkham because Victor Zsasz had no traces of his medication in his system. I talked to him myself, and he told me the same  _ damn  _ thing, and I didn't want to believe him, but here we are. I need to go apologize to  _ Victor Zsasz _ for snapping at him, because I thought he was lying about  _ Bruce Wayne  _ telling him to cheek his meds.”

“We can't let Strange get anyone else under his control,” Bruce insists. “He was at Arkham. He's already gotten Fries, Firefly, Ivy,”  _ me _ , he thinks, but doesn't say. “He's dangerous.”

“He didn't see Strange,” Jim says. He tosses a file at Bruce, it lands just at the edge of his desk, and Bruce picks up the folder for an employee file. There's a bald man in the photo, definitely not Strange, at least not from the front. “This guy started the  _ same day  _ Zsasz paged us. He saw an opportunity, or hell, maybe he thinks he really saw him, but either way, it wasn't Strange.” Bruce breathes faster, shaking his head. “I know Strange scares you,” Jim says in a quieter tone. “I know he's tortured you, and Ed and Oswald, and now Freeze. I know he's a sick man, and we can't let him gain any more ground. But that doesn't give you permission to give people like Victor Zsasz the go ahead to not take a medication he's been prescribed by a trained psychologist.”

“They can't keep him safe,” Bruce says. “He has to protect himself.”

“Victor Zsasz knows how to protect himself. That's kind of what worries me. He knows how to kill with whatever he can get his hands on, and if this medication can help calm that urge he needs to take it. End of story.” Jim shakes his head. “He's on mandatory drug testing now, weekly basis. I signed off on it because I believe they're trying to help him.”

“Arkham doesn't know how to handle people like Victor Zsasz. They don't know how to handle anyone.” He needs Jim to understand that.

“You've said that, a lot. But after I found out about Zsasz's medication, and your possible _ involvement _ , I looked into things for myself, because it's what I should have done in the first place. My detectives addressed complaints like we agreed, and we background checked every hire at the facility. Complaints are down, and so is corruption, by quite a lot. Out patient is actually getting  _ praised _ , Bruce. They're turning things around.” Bruce opens his mouth to protest but Jim continues. “And I know Oswald and Ed complained, I know they don't like it there, that it's given them more problems than it's fixed, and I understand that. I respect their wishes. But they haven't been in a therapy session in five years, group or individual. And I'm not saying they need to go back. They've seen too much of the bad. Arkham can't help them, but they're helping others, and they're helping Zsasz, even if he hates being there. And if he cooperates with the medication, and he starts getting  _ better _ , who knows? We certainly don't. That's why it  _ isn't  _ our call.”

“He agrees with me.” Every time Bruce sees Victor Zsasz he looks miserable.

“That's not something that helps your argument, Bruce.” Jim sighs. “I know you want to keep everyone safe. And I know it must have been upsetting, hearing about how Arkham was to Ed and Oswald. We both brought them back there countless times. We made things worse for them, even though we both wanted to help. It's frustrating.” He stands and walks over to his coffee pot, and pours a mug of coffee. “We can't undo our mistakes, but we also can't let ourselves make more if we can help it. So, from now on, you need to clear your activities with me. Anything Batman related you plan to do needs to be documented.”

“You don't trust me,” Bruce says. “I'm trying to help make Gotham safe.”

“And I want that to continue, but not without my say so. I have to do my  _ job,  _ Bruce. I need to keep people in line, and make sure  _ all  _ officers of the law obey the law themselves. I can't have a officer telling an inmate at Arkham that he should stop taking his meds.” He takes a drink. “For now, just go home Bruce. Or go to work, it's your choice, but I need to finish up some damage control.”

“You're treating me like a criminal,” he says, angry, standing and upending his chair in the process. “I can be  _ trusted,  _ Jim. I know right from wrong. Strange is out there gaining manpower as we  _ speak _ , and you're trying to bottleneck the entire process. I can't wait for your say so all hours of the day. He'll take away people's autonomy. People will  _ die _ , Jim. Can you live with that? Can you accept that this might cost someone dearly?”

“Go home, Bruce,” he says quietly. “I'll keep you in the loop.”

Bruce wants to tell, to scream in his face, but he nods silently, angry and frustrated, and he storms out of the building, huffing as he tears open his car door and turns it in, cranking his music up far too loud, drowning out everything that isn't fast drums and angry guitars and screaming.

Some of the screaming might be coming from him. He can't really tell over the music.

He parks angrily in the front drive of the Manor, storming inside and through his home, and he goes down into the Batcave to his workout room, tearing off his nicer clothes and growing on sweats, and he pushes the punching bag in the center. And again, and he keeps punching, and he screams.

-

He's on the balcony, watching the sunset, breathing labored and throat pinched, stinging with held back tears. He's angry, and he's frustrated, and he's directed it all at himself.  _ Rightfully _ , he thinks,  _ I've done this to myself _ .

“I wondered where you got to after making a right mess out of the workout room, which I have no intention to straighten out for you,” Alfred says lightly as he sits in the chair next to Bruce, who's opted to sit directly on the balcony. “What has you all out of sorts?”

“I made a mistake,” he says. He swallows thickly.

“I see. This wouldn't have anything to do with the mistake Commissioner Gordon called me about would it?”

“Perhaps,” he says, unless he's indulged several bad habits recently. “I told Victor Zsasz to stop taking his medication until further notice.”

“I see,” Alfred says. “Master Bruce you do realize not everything you say is correct, and by extension, that your judgement can be flawed?”

“I've ruined his life,” Bruce says. He's not feeling up to directly agreeing with Alfred, although he knows he's right. “He's not getting better, and it's my fault.”

“I don't think we should go quite that far Master B.”

“I told him to stop taking his meds!” Bruce howls. He takes a few breaths to calm himself back down. “He wanted my help, and instead I've done the opposite.” He pulls his legs in closer and rests his chin on his left knee. “He asked me to help him. Directly. I never told you that before. Or anyone. I'm not sure he wants me to.” But Bruce can't seem to stop himself, so he continues. “He called me to Arkham, shortly after I'd returned him to his cell. A few years ago, not this last time.” Alfred puts a hand on Bruce's shoulder when his breath hitches, and he nods in thanks. “He told me he wanted to get better. And I didn't believe him. I told him he had to mean it, that he needed to prove to me that it wasn't some ploy so he could get out. I didn't tell him how, but he figured out a way.” Bruce still remembers reading the police reports, and the sick, cold that settled in his stomach afterwards. “He was sent to the infirmary several times in the following months, all attacks he didn't provoke, and not once did he retaliate. He willingly risked his life just to prove to me that he wanted help.”

“Why didn't you say so before?”

“I didn't want more people to claim it was a ruse. He's being sincere, Alfred, in his own way.” He wipes his hand across his eyes. “When I went to see him again, his arm was in a sling, and he scowled at me. I told him to talk, to explain why he decided this after so many years, and he asked me if I remembered the last time I was happy.” He sobs once, but he isn't crying, not really. “He asked, because he couldn't. He doesn't remember what happiness feels like. And I told him I'd do whatever I could to help him feel that again.”

“I don't think you've screwed up as badly as you think,” Alfred tells him. “I've agreed to take all of Commissioner Gordon's calls day or night while we look for Strange. He wants your help, Master B, but you're going to have to work to regain his trust.”

“I know,” he says. He'll do whatever it takes to get it back. “I need to apologize to him later. I got very short with him.”

“He said something similar, but wanted to let you cool off. Give yourself a day to settle and you can both discuss this new arrangement.”

“I will.” Bruce smiles. “Thank you, Alfred. I'm going to ask if he'll approve of a visit to Victor Zsasz so I can apologize to him as well.”

Alfred nods. He doesn't say anything, not right away, but he doesn't let go of Bruce's shoulder, so Bruce stays put. When he does speak, it's a question. “Do you remember the last time you were happy, Master Bruce?”

“I don't understand the question,” he says, but what he means is I don't know why you're asking  _ me _ this question.

“I've known you for your entire life. I've watched you grow into the man you are today, but what I haven't seen recently, certainly not since this business with Strange, is a sign that you're actually  _ happy _ , Master Bruce. I've seen you content, I've seen you satisfied with your work and what you do for this city, but I haven't seen you happy in quite a long time.”

Bruce opens his mouth, intending to reassure Alfred, to tell him he's worried over nothing, but he stops, and as he searches further and further back into his memories he can't recall a single one that made him truly happy. He can hardly recall anything that wasn't the night his parents died. Beforehand, maybe, before the alley and his parents, back when they were spending time together and they were alive and loved him, he was happy then. But that can't be right. He creases his brow, searching every possible moment he can manage to remember and trying, and failing, to call any of them happy.

“Master Bruce?”

But then, he lets out a shaky breath, and closes his eyes. He needs to forget the Manor, forget specific moments, and just  _ think _ . What makes him happy?

He sees curls, and that smirk. An eye roll as she calls him a dork. He nearly sobs, because he's relieved, because he  _ can  _ recall a time when he was happy, several times, and he opens his eyes and stands, turning away from the sunset and opening the door to the house.

“Master Bruce, where are you going?”

“To be happy,” he says. He turns back to Alfred. “I'm going to be happy.”

“Master Bruce,” he says, standing, but Bruce turns away, and he hears Alfred yell, “Bruce!” once more, but he's already to the kitchen, grabbing his keys from the counter and rushing out the door to his car.

-

He climbs into Selina's apartment using the south window. It was unlocked, like always, but when he checks the main room and the bathroom he finds it empty, aside from the multitude of cats that always hang around, and Bruce sits in the middle of the floor, letting them brush against him and demand he pet them while he waits.

-

He wakes up when a hand cards through his hair. Bruce comes to slowly, feeling sluggish and heavy, and he blinks up at Selina from his place on her bed. “Hello.”

“I know I teased you about being clingy before it you're actually starting to worry me a little.”

“I had a rough day.” And a bit of a rough night, he fell asleep on the floor, but moving from there and opting to sleep in Selina's bed helped.

“Yeah? Sorry I was out,” she says, shrugging. “Ed has me running his informant network streetside.”

“It's alright.” And the fact that her hand is still in his hair is particularly nice. “I fed your cats.”

“Little assholes took advantage of your generosity huh?” She laughs when Bruce nods. “So why the rough day?”

“Victor Fries is under Strange's control,” he tells her, and her hand moves to rubbing the back of his neck. “I need to work with Jim to get somewhere set up for him to go in case shocking him ruins his suit.”

“Okay, sounds like a plan,” she says. She seems distracted. “Look, I'd love to play support cat, but I need to pile more shit onto your plate. You busy today?”

“Not particularly. What's wrong?”

“Wrong’s kind of a strong word. Look, can we just go to the Manor first? I don't want to have to tell this a hundred times.”

He nods, worried it's about Ed or his network, or maybe she's seen Richard Grayson around town still even though he and Bruce had their talk, so he climbs out of her bed, and after leaning against her for a moment in a half hug he straightens up and grabs his car keys from her table. “Let's go.”

They make the drive over in silence, and Bruce forces himself to ignore the spiderweb of possibility before he hears what Selina has to say. For all he knows it could be about Ivy, who's gone missing since the police attempted to bring her in back in April. With no information to go off of he can only speculate at best.

“Are you hungry? Alfred might have made breakfast.”

“Sure,” she says. Selina hasn't looked away from the window once, not even when Bruce parks the car and they both get out.

Alfred greets them at the door, giving Bruce a very stern, fatherly look, but he doesn't say anything about his absence, or the fact that Selina accompanied him home. Instead he asks, “would you like eggs or omelets, Miss Kyle?”

“They're  _ both  _ eggs, Alfred,” she says, but she also adds, “eggs,” afterwards, patting him once on the arm as she walks past.

“I'm sorry Alfred,” Bruce whispers. “I didn’t mean to worry you when I left abruptly.”

“You're feeling alright?” he asks, and Bruce nods. “Figured some things out?”

“She makes me happy, Alfred,” he says, and Alfred nods. “But I also appreciate your concern. You've always been an excellent guardian.”

Alfred smiles. “Well, come in and eat something. No sense letting good food go to waste.” He puts an arm around Bruce and ushers him into the Manor. “So what brings Miss Kyle to the Manor this morning?”

“Selina has something to tell us,” Bruce says as they walk to the kitchen, where they find Selina already munching on some baby carrots from the fridge. “Couldn’t wait?”

“I haven’t had breakfast yet,” she says and snaps a carrot in half with her teeth.

“Master Bruce tells me you have some sort of news for the two of us,” Alfred says as he pulls out a pan and griddle. “Master B can you start some pancakes?” Bruce nods and moves to the pantry. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Selina says, watching Bruce collect flour and baking powder. She pushes herself up onto the counter and swings her legs while Bruce and Alfred continue getting out breakfast supplies. “You both want to take a minute to process this?”

“I’m sure we can process and make food,” Bruce tells her.

“Sure, I guess,” she sighs. “I’m pregnant.”


	8. Chapter 8

“May 5th, I am conferring with Selina regarding my network, and the increased surveillance of Barbara Keane.” He scribbles down the meeting time in his planner. “Also, I am meeting with Oswald regarding the riddles and facts I've chosen for the aquarium.” He smiles at the thought. “An interesting and relevant fact, many children retain information better when a visual is included with the new information.”

He sits back in his office chair and flips open a file Jim sent him yesterday evening. It's Ivy's file, filled to the brim with the first hand accounts of the officers he sent in to retrieve her from the greenhouse. It was unsuccessful, but Ed finds a few of the details rather intriguing. He picks up his phone and hits his speed dial for Jim, and begins speaking the second he picks up.

“Jim would you say the officers sent to retrieve Ivy successfully shocked her?”

“Good morning, Ed,” Jim sighs. “I was actually going to call you soon. Can you let me talk first? It'll be quick.”

“Alright,” Ed says, cautious. “But I want to speak about Ivy as well.”

“We will, Ed, just, give me a second to find my files.” Ed can hear Jim rustling with papers on his desk. “Alright, what can you tell me about Zsasz?”

“Beg pardon?” Ed blinks. “You have his file if I'm not mistaken.”

“I know that, Ed, it's in my hand. I mean, well, you've worked with him for years. You know more than this file.”

“Oswald might be a better person to ask.”

“Oswald might also try to give me the runaround because he feels like it,” Jim says. “No offense.”

“He is in a good mood,” Ed says. Oswald almost didn't let him out of the house so they could celebrate his official signing of the deed for the new building, which he's organizing a tear down for as they speak. “I suppose Victor Zsasz is very particular. Certain things need to go they way he wishes if you want his help to be optimal.”

“What kind of  _ things _ ?” Jim asks. He sounds unsure if he truly wants an answer.

“Well, having caffeine available, his sleep pattern, ample food, small things. Nothing terribly unusual.” He pauses. “Well, aside from turning the occasional blind eye.”

This time Jim is quiet, and he sighs. Ed waits patiently, drumming his fingers on his desk. “You mean, letting him kill.”

“Oswald and I were very,” he pauses, “thorough, with our blind eye. I'm afraid I don't actually  _ know  _ what he tended to do when he slinked off. I do know he  _ occasionally  _ turned up with a new bandage or two, but I never sought out any details.”

“First, we  _ both  _ know he must have killed if he ended up with new scars. Second, Ed I can't believe I'm about to say this but I  _ trusted  _ the two of you to keep him in line. We had a system. You agreed to nightly check ins.”

“We did.” Ed bites his lip. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,”  _ he  _ says, slipping into Ed's view from the bathroom mirror. “He'll say something like, oh I don't know, it's my fault for trusting a couple of career criminals?” He shrugs, and laughs when Ed glares at him. “You're not threatening in that cute little sweater of yours so don't try to intimidate me.”

He  _ likes  _ this sweater. It's very light, good for spring breezes, and Oswald likes how it hugs his torso. It’s the collar, most likely, because it’s asymmetrical, and a bit looser than he’s used to, but Oswald got it for him, and he likes to slip his hand inside the off centered vee neck and touch Ed’s collarbone.

He should really focus on this conversation.

He should  _ also _ get rid of mirrors if all they’re going to do is provide a medium for his shadow self to manifest.

“Just be honest with me, Ed.” Jim snaps him away from the mirror when he speaks.  “You don't know anything specific? Anyone he may have targeted?”

“No,” he says, “at least, not officially.”

“ _ Un _ officially?”

Ed rubs his face. “Fish might've called in a favor.” Jim doesn't say anything, and Ed feels the bubbling anxiety, the need to explain his comment, and he says, “she saved his life. Twice, I believe. Oswald, he hasn't, he  _ wouldn't  _ kill, or kill by proxy. But if she asked for use of Zsasz, well then it's out of his hands, Jim. You understand, right? It's not something he can  _ avoid _ , and-”

“Ed, hey, slow down,” Jim tells him, and Ed takes a shaky breath. “Help me follow along. Why would Oswald owe Fish?”

“She saved him,” Ed whispers, “when I couldn't. She, well, Jim, you're aware we're down to just Gabe in our employ, correct? And Selina manages my network?”

“So you don't have a crew.” Jim reiterates. “Does Fish protect you?”

Ed takes a deep breath, and looks to his photo, pulling it off the desk and holding it as he whispers, “yes. But indirectly. Never in person. We move from home to home frequently, and she takes the spotlight off our property and onto her own, which I believe she prefers because she's fond of a little mayhem now and again. We also don't buy anything she wants unless we're giving it to her. It's a mutual avoidance, but a helpful one, and you can't tell a soul, Jim Gordon. What is precious to have but lost the moment it's shared?”

“I won't tell, Ed. Just, please, I want to help you both, so keep me in the loop. I know Gotham isn't the safest place for the two of you. I know Oswald's made plenty of enemies, and I'm sure you have too.”

Ed nods although Jim can't see. “Deal.” He rests the photo on his leg, running his finger over the frame. “Why did you want to know about Zsasz?”

“I think I was hoping you'd tell me he over shared during breakfast so I could try to figure him out,” Jim tells him. “The more I learn about Zsasz the less I understand him.”

“He wasn't the sharing type,” Ed says. “I'm not sure he  _ ever  _ revealed anything substantial while he was in our home aside for an affinity for sweatpants.”

“That is somehow weirder than anything else you could have told me,” Jim laughs. “Hey, I didn't mean to force you to tell me about your uh, constant low grade peril from living here. Sorry about that.”

“It's been less of a bother in recent years. Neither of us has quite the household name we had before.” He puts the photo back and smiles at it briefly, mentally sending it Oswald's way. “We're just not that interesting to most people these days.”

“That's hard to believe,” Jim mutters. “So, anyway, you wanted to ask about Ivy?”

“Right!” Ed exclaims. “I read the accounts of the officers, and I wanted to confirm that they shocked her vines and not Ivy's person.”

“Far as I know they never got close. By the time the team reached the center of the greenhouse she was gone.”

“Interesting,” he says, rubbing his chin. He makes a few notes on a loose piece of paper and slips it into Ivy’s file. “This is only my theory, but I think she might’ve received enough of a shock to snap out of Strange’s control.”

“I could really go for a miracle like that right about now,” Jim tells him. “I’ll keep a few officers looking, but I’ll keep my fingers crossed that you’re right and she’s gone into hiding.”

“I’ll do the same,” he says. Then he hears the door to Enigma Services open and shut, and Ed says, “I believe Selina has arrived.”

“Or one of those little  _ enemies _ Jim mentioned,” his shadow says, smirking, and Ed scowls at the mirror. “Want to take any bets? Million to one against you kid.”

“Tell her I said hi,” Jim says, and Ed is just about to ask him some inane question to keep him on the line, but Selina pokes her head into his office and pretends to be offended that he’s on the phone. “Goodbye, Jim.”

“Would you rather have a meeting with Jim? I can go,” she says, pointing to the door.

“He says hello,” Ed tells her. She smirks and leans against the back of the chair on the other side of Ed’s desk. “I trust things are going well.”

“Sure. Been busy. Your little information goons don’t have anything interesting.”

That feels somewhat unusual, but the streets themselves have been rather quiet. Even a place like Gotham has a lull every once and awhile.

“Calm before the storm,”  _ he  _ says, and Ed talks over him, adding, “I’d like to increase surveillance on Barbara Keane and her movements.”

“Ozzie’s pissing her off again isn’t he,” she says, and Ed nods, although he’s reluctant to throw Oswald under the bus like that. “Sure. Plenty of people at the Flea looking for a quick buck.”

“If you’re feeling generous have them keep an eye out for Ivy as well,” Ed says as he flips through the files on his desk. Cold case. Cold case.  _ Solved  _ case. He’s going to gloat in person about that one. Book. Of course. “Now, if you’re not busy, I have a few books that need to go back to the library.”

Selina looks at him, blinking, and when he holds up a small stack her eyebrows go up. “You want me to return your library books?”

“Technically, they were not borrowed and are in fact, “stolen”,” he says, air quoting after she takes the books. “I would appreciate if they were to appear on the shelves where they belong.”

“You know they have that dumb alarm system, right?”

“That is precisely why I’m asking you to do this. I’ll pay, of course,” he adds, pulling out his wallet. “I know this is unprecedented so I’ll let you set your price.”

“You are so weird,” she says, setting the books down on the chair and holding out a hand. “Fifty bucks. I’m going to have to break in  _ and  _ out.”

“Seems fair enough,” he says, pulling out two twenties and a ten, and marking the cost in his ledger. He hands the bills over and watches Selina put them in her pocket. She yawns, and stretches, and Ed hums to himself once, and asks, “Selina are you pregnant?”

Her eyes get big, and she looks offended. “Are you  _ kidding  _ me right now? Has  _ no  _ one ever told you to never ask someone that? WHo do you think you are exactly? Don’t ask someone that. You don’t even have evidence.”

“You’ve had three mild breakouts, most notably on your chin,” she touches her face, “and you’ve abandoned some of your tighter clothing in favor of soft knits. Plus, I heard you throwing up last time we met.”

She shakes her head, and licks her lips once, and sighs, sounding defeated. “Okay, fine, you got me. But seriously, if you ever ask someone that again I’ll deck you myself.”

“I honestly didn’t intend to, but I began to worry. I can’t have my lead informant getting sick with something, and once I did enough research I realized what I’d been observing.” Ed smiles apologetically. “Is it,” he huffs, “Bruce?”

“Yep,” she nods.

“Ah, I see.” He folds his hands on his desk. “Does he know?”

“Yeah, he knows,” she sighs. “Look, I can pay you to like, do stuff for me, right?”

“I don’t see why not,” Ed tells her, pulling out his task notebook and writing Selina on top of a clean page. “Go on.”

“He’s being “supportive” or whatever, and I’m supposed to make a decision about,” she waves her hand in front of her stomach, “this, but it’s supposed to be  _ informed,  _ and that’s really more your thing. So I need you to research all of this crap and dumb it down a little. Give me the bullet points. Hell, make a powerpoint if you feel like it.”

“Alright,” he says, writing down a few notes. “Pregnancy and birth?”

“Yep, whole shebang.”

“Would you like me to include termination procedures?”

Selina’s mouth opens a little, possibly shock, but she nods. “Yeah, yeah include that too. I did say informed.” She pulls the cash back out of her pocket. “How much?”

“No need,” Ed waves her money away. “I find research relaxing.”

“Weirdo,” she teases, then she looks serious. “Thanks. Seriously. And if you can, just keep this to yourself, okay? I don’t even know what the hell I’m doing yet.”

“Of course.”

She looks at him for a second. “You’re going to tell Oswald aren’t you.”

“It’s a strong possibility.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine, but  _ he  _ better not spread it around town.”

“We’ll keep it to ourselves. And I’ll get this done for you as soon as possible.”

“Cool,” she says. Selina picks up the stack of books and turns towards the door. “Say uh, thanks for not being a dick, aside from asking if I’m pregnant. That’s a pretty dick move.”

“Take care, Selina,” he calls after her, and she waves once before shutting the office door behind her. “Oh dear.”

-

Ed isn't known for shirking any duties, and he places Selina's research at the top of his to do list, starting with a trip to the library, this time with a fake ID in hand and a two week beard on his face. And his contacts, which itch terribly, but he's trying to be convincing. Eddie Nashton wouldn't be caught dead in a pair of Ed's dorky glasses, even at the cost of his general comfort.

It's an uneventful trip. He finds his books, signs up for a card and checks out a number of pregnancy and family planning books, and smiles in a friendly manner when the librarian coos, asking if he's planning on having a child.

“Not a chance in hell,” he tells her, and he way he said it must've caught her by surprise, because she nods, then blinks in confusion, but he leaves before she can ask any questions.

Ed likes to read new information before bed so he can properly absorb the new data, and he's sitting up, glasses firmly in place now that he's free of his contacts, and the small light he attached to his side of the headboard illuminates a photo of the trimesters. He makes a few notes in the notebook beside the bed, and he's about to call it a night when he realizes he's being watched.

“Is the light bothering you?” he asks Oswald, who's gaping openly at Ed. “I'm going to bed now, so-”

“Is this your way of subtly telling me you want a  _ child,  _ Ed?”

“What?” He lifts up the book and turns it over. “No, of course not.”

“Because we both  _ agreed _ , Ed, that children are monsters. I suppose if you've really changed your mind we can open up the topic for discussion, but if you're going to try and vague me until I think it's  _ my  _ idea-”

“I was asked to do research,” he interrupts, “by Selina.” Oswald blinks. “She's pregnant.”

“Oh, I see,” Oswald says, shifting so he's lying down on his side of the bed. “Who?”

“Bruce, if you're asking about the father.”

“Yes of course,” Oswald sighs. “Well, that is,” his mouth hangs open as he searches for a word, “shocking?”

“I think so.” Ed reaches over and sets his book on the night stand before switching off his light and settling low on the bed with his head on Oswald's pillow. “She wants to make an informed decision, and she asked for my help. She also asked that we not spread it around.”

“Who does she think I'm going to gossip to. Barbara?” Oswald laughs, then he sighs and looks at Ed. “When did we get so old?”

“We're not even fifty,” he counters, but he understands the feeling.

“You're going gray,” Oswald says as he pets Ed's hair.

“So are you.”

“Excuse me, I still  _ dye  _ my hair, so no, I am not going gray until I  _ say  _ so.” Ed laughs. “But I digress. You have gray hairs. I'm fat. Bruce and Selina are having a  _ child _ . When did we suddenly become geriatric, because I am  _ not  _ a fan.”

“Potentially,” Ed corrects. “And we're not geriatric.”

“I always imagined I'd die young, because of my chosen line of work. I'd go out in a blaze of glory. But now here I am, puttering away, enjoying my breakfast with a cup of coffee and my  _ husband _ . Gods, if my younger self could see me now I think he'd have a stroke.”

“I think it would be a relief,” Ed says. “Knowing I'm capable of this.”

He doesn't specify, but Oswald seems to understand. “Well, you're most certainly  _ capable _ .” He turns into his side fully, and asks, “how is your knee?”

“About the same. No inflammation, some mild stiffness.” He turns to Oswald. “Why?”

Oswald kisses him, and Ed understands. He lets Oswald push him onto his back, and then Oswald's kissing him again, and then making him turn again. Wait a moment. “Oswald I'm not certain I know what you're intending.”

“I’m making you be the little spoon. Just go to sleep, Ed,” Oswald says as he wraps an arm around Ed's waist. It seems he knows Ed better than he knows himself, because he hadn't realized he wanted this until he's already settled his back against Oswald's chest, eyes drooping and heavy, surrounded by warm blankets and Oswald's minimal body heat.

A tiny reflection of his shadow self makes a face at him from the small mirror across the room, and he sticks his tongue out at him. Clearly, this is some sort of twisted jealousy from his past self, because Ed is exactly where he wants to be.

-

“May 7th, Bruce has asked for my aid on a project,” Ed says as he parks his car at the Manor. “He did not provide any details.”

“I would like to add that he dragged me along with  _ no  _ explanation,” Oswald quickly says, but Ed's already shut off his recorder. “I was going to take a  _ bath _ , Ed. I implore you, what could be more important than a bath?”

“You take baths most days,” Ed teases him. “You spent two full days pouring over your plans. I'm just making sure you get adequate sunlight.” Ed pokes Oswald's cheek, and Oswald grumbles. “And I have a surprise for you.”

“Oh?” Oswald smiles. “Well, if there's a  _ surprise  _ I suppose I can play nice for a few hours.”

Bruce greets them at the front door and ushers them inside, telling Oswald, “I need to borrow Ed for a moment.”

“By all means,” he says, smiling to the two of them. “I'll just make myself at home in the kitchen.”

Bruce nods. “Alfred bought extra sandwich supplies yesterday. Help yourself.” He turns back to Ed and says, “I understand that Selina asked you for help.”

“Yes,” Ed says, nodding. “I've been compiling information for her.”

“Thank you.” Bruce claps Ed on the shoulder, looking tired but also grateful. “Now, I have a question. Have you ever built a walk in freezer?”

Ed is about to say yes when he registers the question, and he shakes his head. “I can't say that I have, not personally. Oswald might have more know-how on the subject.” He motions towards Oswald's general direction, and when Bruce takes the lead he follows him into the kitchen, where they find Oswald assembling a rather generously sized sandwich with lunch meat and lettuce and cheese. “Oswald have you ever built a freezer?”

“How big?” he asks. He's slathering the top bread slice with mustard and some pepper.

“I don't want to be overly ambitious,” Bruce explains. “We may not even need the freezer, but if we're going to rescue Victor Fries from Strange I want to be prepared. I think something small, ten by ten at the very largest, should be sufficient. If you think it should be smaller that is acceptable.”

“Well I'm sure  _ money  _ isn't a large factor for you,” Oswald says as he pats the top piece of bread down, grinning down at his sandwich. “And the Manor should have enough electricity available to power it.”

“I assume so,” Bruce says. “This is still in preliminary planning stages. I wanted some input before moving forward.”

“You're going to want to avoid putting metal in the room if you can help it, from a comfort standpoint,” Ed clarifies. “I imagine even Victor Fries would find cold metal somewhat uncomfortable.”

“Ideally we won't need it, but ideally he would have been able to avoid Strange in the first place,” Bruce mutters, getting a bit stormy and downtrodden. “Thank you both. I'll tell Alfred at once.”

“Is this all you wanted?” Oswald asks around a small mouthful. He swallows and clears his throat when Bruce stops walking away. “Couldn't do this over the phone?”

“I have one other thing for Ed,” he says. “Because PharmaGo has been destroyed we no longer have a source for Nora's potential treatment. I feel very strongly that Victor was planning on agreeing to its use, but Strange stepped in and made it an impossibility. I'd like to know if you could make more here, in the lab, if we're able to get you the proper ingredients and tools.”

“I'd have to review the paper,” he says, but he doesn't really, because he remembers the steps from the drawing he made, how simply yet elegantly they flowed from one to the next. It's simple, yet powerful, lifesaving. “I did pass several organic chemistry courses. I'm sure I can figure it out.”

“Excellent,” Bruce sighs, relieved, and he urged the two of them to follow. Ed smiles to Oswald, but Oswald only glares back, pointedly ignoring Ed in favor of eating his sandwich alone in the kitchen.

-

Ed sets up a stir plate and gathers glassware, pointedly ignoring the huffing and puffing Oswald is doing across the room. Ed huffs back, just as frustrated, scowling at the wall because he needs to pay attention while a flask heats to two hundred degrees Fahrenheit.

_ I don’t see why you had to drag me here just to  _ **_bore_ ** _ me. _

Science tends to  _ bore  _ Oswald. Well, that makes  _ one  _ of them. Ed writes down his progress and notes his observation as his solution begins to boil.

“Give me your keys,” Oswald says, having snuck up on him. Ed hides his surprise and shakes his head. “Ed I have better things to do today than watch you fuss with chemicals.”

“I'm doing Bruce a favor.”

“You've been doing everyone favors. It's about time someone else did a favor for you.”

Oswald forcibly drags Ed away when he tries to ignore him, and Ed snarls, until he sees the twinge of hurt covered up by Oswald's anger. “Why are you upset?”

Oswald glares at the row of beakers and test tubes. “The last time you did a  _ favor  _ for Bruce you called me, having a meltdown, and proceeded to spend the next several days despondent and depressed, unable to motivate yourself to even go downstairs. Forgive me if I see the  _ correlation _ between the two. I might be reaching.”

Ed glances back to his little station and sighs, switching off the heating portion of his stir plate and lifting his goggles. “That was my own research. He didn't ask me to study the chemical. I wanted,” he pauses, “I need to know what Strange did to me. But I don't have another sample.”

Oswald nods, then asks, “what about Freeze?”

“I doubt he's actively receiving the treatment. I doubt Bruce will condone using someone as bait either.”

“Well don't go throwing  _ yourself _ in danger just to get another sample,” Oswald demands, and Ed nods. He doesn't want to get anywhere near Strange anytime soon.

“You shouldn’t worry, Oswald. This work relaxes me,” he says. “I'm merely following a procedure. Undergrads could complete this work, and often do. Doing this actually reminds me of a lab from college.”

“I never went,” Oswald reminds him. “Not that I'd have the patience for upper level science courses.”

“It's not terribly complicated,” Ed says. He hears the hopeful note in his voice and hates it, and quashes it down, because he's just getting his hopes up unnecessarily. Oswald isn't science minded the same way Ed isn't meant for diplomacy. That's just how it is. “If you're bored you could go upstairs.”

“You did promise me some sun,” Oswald says, looking up at the artificial lighting. “Not much sun to go around down here.”

“I have a mouth but no speech, teeth that don't bite, and a resistance to change,” Ed says. “A cave,” he adds when Oswald looks at him blankly.

“Well this  _ cave  _ isn't all that exciting when I'm not allowed to  _ touch  _ anything. I'll just be upstairs if you're getting too lonely.” He leans up to kiss Ed's cheek, and Ed kisses his forehead in return, leaning his cheek on Oswald's brow for a moment before turning back to his work.

-

“Ed,” Oswald shakes his shoulder, “Ed you promised me a surprise and I've seen  _ nothing _ .”

Ed groans and covers his head with the pillow he's using. “Surprise yourself,” he mutters, trying to go back to sleep. “My experiment need a few more hours to percolate properly.”

“I'd accept a nap as a surprise. Especially if you move over so I can nap with you.”

“Nope,” Ed groans. “I've claimed this couch for science. You'll get a surprise later.”

“Alfred made dinner,” he says, and Ed chooses that moment to peek open one eye, allowing Oswald to lift the pillow away. Oswald is kneeling in front of the couch, batting his mascara'd eyelashes at Ed. “It's some sort of stuffed pasta shell.”

“The experiment-”

“Can go without you being down here for an hour. You were  _ snoring _ , Ed. If you can sleep then you can entertain me.”

“Insufferable,” Ed mumbles, leaning forward to kiss Oswald's forehead. “Truly, honestly insufferable.”

But he gets up and follows Oswald upstairs, snagging his file bag from a chair in Bruce's study before reaching the dining room, where Bruce is eating alone with his phone glued to his right hand, mindlessly taking bites of his food with his left. He doesn't notice them enter at first, and it isn't until they've both sat near him with their plates that he looks up at all.

“Sorry,” he says, slipping his phone in his pocket. “That copycat, he texted me, something about seeing Firefly. I think Strange is trying to draw me out.”

“Well then I suggest you do something to draw  _ him _ , out,” Oswald suggests. “I also suggest you give the recipe for this to Ed.”

“I should be able to figure it out based on taste,” Ed says.

Bruce smiles briefly. “I'll have Alfred give you the leftovers if you want. I need to get over to the GCPD for patrol.” He stands and picks up his dishes. “Thank you for your help.”

Ed and Oswald watch him leave, and Oswald whispers, “so can I have my surprise  _ now _ ?”

Ed laughs, “yes, alright,” he reaches down by his feet and pulls out a small folder. “I've completed a set of facts and riddles for you.”

Oswald blinks, clearly unimpressed with the speed Ed managed to complete these in, but then he flips open the folder and smiles. “Oh, for the displays.”

“Why else would I have made them?” he asks, cheeky, and Oswald swats him with the folder.

-

It's rare that Ed gets the time to truly enjoy a trip to the library, but he's compiled his research for Selina, handed over the display riddles to Oswald and his designer, the cold cases from Jim are on hold while they wrap up the few that Ed has already solved, and since he's waiting on Alfred to complete a second spectroscopy test on Ed's second trial run of the medication (his first batch wasn't as pure as he wanted) he's on hold until further notice.

His eyes itch. It's an unfortunate side effect, but he needs to match his fake ID as much as possible, and that's already an uphill battle given his relatively clean shaven appearance. He wishes he could see well enough without any aid, but he certainly can't drive without some sort of corrective lenses, and there's no point dragging Gabe out just to drop Ed off for the afternoon.

Although, hindsight suggests he  _ should  _ have, because as he watches the predatory blonde across the room stalk closer Ed laments his apparent vulnerability, being here alone and relying on a hurried text to Jim Gordon while attempting to hide his phone behind a book; a simple, blurry photo of Barbara Keane's smile, timestamped and location included in the photo file.

“Loving the new look book boy,” she smiles and laughs, not heeding the library's courtesy noise volume as she slips onto the couch next to Ed. “Listen, we need to have a little chat, just you and me.”

“You followed me here,” Ed whispers.

“You make it sound like that's  _ difficult _ , Eddie,” she says, twirling a lock of hair and grinning when someone shushes her. “Don't be jealous, honey.”

“You're disrupting,” Ed nearly shouts, but he quiets, “you're disrupting everyone, myself included. Leave.”

“We're going to have our chat now, one way or another,” she whispers in Ed's ear, and he grimaces, shifting away, but she grabs his arm, “and you're going to pass on a little message for me, understand?”

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Jim. Ed smiles to Barbara, placating, and packs his books into his bag. He needs to keep her occupied until Jim arrives. “Right this way.”

He leads her to a back corner of the library, past the bathrooms and into some private study rooms. It's a gamble; Barbara could have anticipated this and hid a few of her goons in the stairwell, but he has to accept the risk, assuming he is to be the messenger and not just Barbara's plaything. Oswald won't be happy if he gets himself kidnapped again.

The thought leaves a sticky, sick feeling in the back of his throat, and he swallows, grimacing as his stomach does a flip. No, he will  _ not  _ allow himself to be taken by any of their old adversaries. She's just Barbara Keane. Under the makeup and hair product and nice clothes she's still human, just a very driven, very unstable human. Ed can, unfortunately, relate.

“That's a cute little sweater you have there Eddie. Really brings out the pukey color in your skin tone.”

_ She  _ does a far better job than his damn sweater. “What do you want, Barbara.”

“Can't we catch up a little first? I dish, you dish, it'll be like old times.” She flicks a pocket knife open at her side. “So  _ dish _ . Your better half is poaching my property, and I want to know who he bribed. I'm trying to cut negative people out of my life.”

Interesting. Unnerving, but interesting. “I believe you meant to say  _ poached _ , since I believe he has he deed.”

“Don't play cute,” she says, walking forward and backing Ed up until he's against the table in the middle of the room. “Is he trying to pull a Falcone? That old fart just couldn't let things lie and look where it got him.”

“I think you're just getting  _ sloppy _ ,” Ed tells her, hand silencing the frantic vibrating his phone is doing and the other reaching quietly for his other pocket. “Case in point,” he says, swinging his arm up quickly and stabbing a sleep dart into her shoulder, she gasps, and he pushes her back, “you let me near my pockets. I'd sit if I were you. The muscle relaxant kicks in first.”

He watches her hand give out and the knife fall to the floor, and he takes it, careful to not touch it directly. Barbara yells after him as he leaves the room, voice slurring as the dart takes effect, “I hope your boy toy knows what he's gotten himself into!”

Ed does too, and he takes a few deep, settling breaths once he's far away from Barbara and huddled in the relative safety of the bathroom. He's lucky. He has a few darts, he took her weapon, he's locked himself in a private, quiet space; he'll be fine. He just has to wait until Jim arrives.

Jim. Ed pulls his phone out of his pocket and hits redial, noting the two missed calls and a voicemail.

He picks up on the second ring. “Ed? What's going on?”

“The photo should be enlightening enough,” he tells Jim, wiping some sweat off his brow and leaning against the cool tile. “Or could you not figure it out?”

“Ed for God's sake just tell me where you are.”

“Library, main branch,” he says, mood falling. He had hoped Jim would understand. It's not like he had time to _explain_.

“Why is Barbara there?”

Ed takes a breath, and he slides down the wall so he's sitting on the floor, back in a corner and legs tucked in close to his chest. He speaks quietly, barely a whisper. “Oswald bought some of her property. She took it personally. But he did it  _ legally,  _ Jim. It was for sale, and he bought it, and that's  _ it _ .  _ She's  _ the one overreacting, and if you think for a  _ second _ -”

“Woah, Ed, okay, just take a breath for me. Breathe.” He does, surprised to find his inhale shaky. “Just sit tight. I'm a few minutes out.”

“I may have incapacitated her,” he admits. “In self defence.”

“I believe you,” Jim chuckles. “Just lie low. I'm coming in alone.”

Ed hums in agreement, and he keeps the phone to his ear. He doesn't tell Jim to stay on the line, but Jim does anyway, and shortly after the call started Jim's pulling up outside, grumbling about the parking and getting shushed the second he enters the building.

“Teenagers are shushing me Ed. This city has no respect for their elders.”

“You're in a library,” Ed says, catching the joke a bit too late. “Second floor bathroom,” he tells Jim, and he waits until there's a soft knock before pulling himself up off the floor and unlocking the door to let Jim inside. He opens the door, and Ed presents Barbara's pocket knife to Jim, holding it with a handkerchief wrapped around the handle. “This isn't mine.”

“Yeah that sounds about right,” Jim says, accepting the covered knife and placing it in a jacket pocket. “Where is she?”

Ed leads the way down the hall, past the stairs and back to the private study room, where he finds the door cracked open and the room itself empty. No chair is out of place, and the wipe off boards on the walls are clean. “She was  _ here _ . She was  _ right here _ .”

“Ed, calm down,” Jim says, and he places a hand on Ed's shoulder, and Ed jerks his arm free. “We'll figure this out, okay? In the meantime I think you and Oswald should stay away from your house for a few days.”

“Is that an offer?” Ed asks. He's somewhat curious about Jim's current home, at least the part of him not dedicated to quietly panicking about Oswald's safety.

“It's a  _ suggestion. _ Go stay at the Manor. Not that I wouldn't love the company,” he says, teasing, “but I'm not very good at having house guests.”


	9. Chapter 9

_ Wayne Manor, May 5th, morning _ .

“You're pregnant,” Bruce repeats. He hasn't gotten past that part aside from a quiet “oh”, followed by some panicked internal monologues about how they've been using condoms religiously for years.

“I peed on like, ten of those stupid stick things. They can't  _ all  _ be lying.”

Bruce looks at Alfred, who is covering his shock rather well while he prepares some eggs, and back to Selina, who's shrugging in a non-committal, “sucks” sort of way. “How far along are you?”

“I dunno, eight, nine weeks maybe?”

“Eight  _ weeks _ ?” Alfred shouts. “How the blazes have you gone that long without knowing?”

“I don't know! I'm not regular.” She huffs. “Usually missing a month is  _ fine _ , okay? But then I missed a second one, and well, there you go. And I guess I threw up sometimes in the morning.”

“You guess, well, good to see the two of you know what you're doing,” Alfred mutters to himself and serves Selina some eggs. “You,” he points to Bruce with the spatula, “can make the rest of breakfast.”

“Yes,” Bruce nods, snapping out of whatever daze he started slipping into and tending the burners. He can make food; it’s something simple to focus on, and it’ll help. He’s hungry, Selina’s probably hungry. She’s pregnant.

She’s pregnant.

“You’re being pretty cool about this Alfred,” Selina says, forking the eggs into her mouth.

“I wouldn’t let yourself get _fooled_ , Miss Kyle. I am most definitely going to question you about this. I just feel the need to sit down for this conversation.” Alfred eases into a chair at the breakfast table and rubs his forehead. “Let's back up a tad, shall we? I was under the impression you were taking measures to _avoid_ this.”

“We were,” Bruce says as he pours pancake batter onto the griddle. “But condoms aren't one hundred percent effective, I suppose.”

“What gave you that idea?” Alfred asks sarcastically.

“Look, can we move past the whole, no one planned for this part?” Selina slaps her fork down on the counter and hops off, moving across the room to lean on the table. “Can we just talk about what comes next?”

Bruce nods. “Whatever you decide, I support you.”

“Because I don't even know if I want to  _ keep _ it or anything-”

“Selina,” Bruce says, quietly, and she stops. “No matter what you decide, I will support you.”

“Okay, fine.” She shifts her weight off the table and crosses her arms. “So, what do you think?”

“I don’t want to influence your decision with my opinions.” He’s panicking a little and he can’t collect his thoughts enough to form anything other than mental static and an internal siren wailing. “Regardless of my opinion, I want you to do what you think is best.”

Selina rolls her eyes. “Throw me a bone here, Bruce. Are you against it? For it? Indifferent?”

“I,” he pauses, “haven’t considered the possibility. I don’t know. I suppose I’m not,” he takes a breath and flips a few pancakes over, then scoops them onto a nearby plate, “I’m certainly not against having children.”

“Oh, well that’s good news,” Alfred says. “I suppose you’re going to expect some  _ help _ , then, Master Bruce? Expecting good old Alfred Pennyworth to raise this child?”

“He’s got a point,” Selina agrees.

“Nonsense,” he says. “I’m more than willing to raise a child.”

“Oh  _ are  _ you now?” Alfred asks incredulously. “Well, good to know you’ve taken some time to research child rearing in your free time.”

“But I don’t want you to feel pressured,” Bruce tells Selina, “so, no matter what you decide, I’ll support it. And don’t feel obligated to choose right this second. We should both take some time to reflect.”

“Sure,” Selina grabs a few pancakes from the plate near the griddle and starts eating them dry. “Look, I need to get going. I’m doing some jobs for Ed. And I’ll think about all this shit. I just figured you should know, since it’s kind of your fault,” she teases lightly. Neither of them laugh. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I am  _ not  _ walking all the way across town.”

“I should go into work,” Bruce tells her. “I’ll give you a ride. Just give me a few minutes to eat and get dressed.”

“I’ll be outside,” she says, and Bruce keeps his cool right up until she leaves the kitchen, then he groans, covering his face with his hands and probably getting a bit of batter in his hair.

“This is quite the predicament you’ve found yourself in, sir,” Alfred says.

“I’m trying to not have an aneurism, Alfred,” he whispers, strained, and he exhales loudly. “This is unexpected.”

“It’s a bit more than  _ unexpected _ , Master Bruce.”

“I’m not disagreeing with you,” he whispers, mumbling a bit, staring down at a misshapen pancake and nudging it with the spatula. “What would you do, Alfred, if you were in this situation?”

“Well, Master Bruce, I suppose that implies that I’m not  _ involved  _ with this particular situation, which I believe I most certainly am, though not to the same degree as you. If you want me to tell you what  _ you  _ should do I’m afraid I don’t have an answer. I think you should take some time to decide what outcome is right for yourself  _ and  _ Miss Kyle.”

“I should get to work,” he says, switching off the burner and removing the remaining pancakes. He places the plate in front of Alfred and grabs a few off the stack for himself.

“Bruce,” Alfred says, and Bruce stops, somewhat startled, and waits for Alfred to continue, “this isn’t a decision you should make lightly. This is very high up on the list life-changing moments of your life.”

“I know,” he says. He can’t fathom any of his options without wanting to hide a little, so he shoves thinking about it down deep for now, at least until he can get to his office and hide out in his private washroom. “I’ll think about it, Alfred. I just need to process this.”

“Don’t we all,” Alfred mutters.

-

He taps his pen against his desk, twitching his foot in his overly quiet office. Bruce should be reading a proposal. He should be doing a lot of things, actually, but pen tapping is all he's managed to do for the last hour.

Selina is  _ pregnant _ . There is a potential human currently occupying her person, and it's because of Bruce. And he doesn't know what to think.

Children have never been something he's considered. Not by any strong aversion or moral standing; he's just genuinely not considered it as an option.

He can't imagine an infant, he has no frame of reference on the matter, but toddlers, children, he's dealt with them before. They can be loud and confusing, but he's used to interacting with them when there's some sort of peril, and Bruce assumes that tends to skew unfavorably compared to how most children behave.

If he is going to have a child, he is, obviously, going to be a father. If.

Bruce pulls out his cellphone and opens up Siri. “Siri, what is it like to become a father for the first time?”

Before the double ding can even sound off someone is knocking on Bruce's office door, and he quickly silences his phone before calling them inside. “Sir, you asked me to remind you a half hour before your meeting.”

“Yes, thank you Brenda.” Bruce nods and picks up the proposal on his desk, flipping open to the first page past the cover sheet and skimming the document before the meeting.

-

Wayne Enterprises isn't  _ actively  _ out to get him, but as Bruce sits through a board meeting regarding improvements to the company's daycare program he can't help but wonder what cosmic force might have caused this meeting to collide with his recent news.

Admittedly, he should be listening. The meeting itself is mostly for show, no one opposed improved child care, but he can't get himself to focus. Every second he sits staring at a PowerPoint full of employee photos and smiling, playing children he thinks of Selina, her usual clothes traded in for a sweater, or maybe tee shirts and jeans, and a baby. He doesn't try to imagine what their kid would look like, but he can't help but imagine curly, wild hair like Selina's.

“We will extend the program to spouses and partners that do not work for Wayne Enterprises as long as they have an immediate family member within the company.”

He's never considered proper childcare until now but suddenly he feels like he should. Bruce pulls his phone out of his pocket and searches the internet, keeping his phone against his leg to not disturb others in the meeting. He scrolls through a long list of doctors and discipline techniques and proper early education to stimulate learning and he shuts off his phone, feeling a bit overwhelmed.

He wishes his parents were here. He does that often when he finds himself in a situation he has no prior experience with, but it's never been quite this potentially life changing. Surely they would know what to do, or at least offer a guiding have if nothing else. Instead he's left with his thoughts, jumbled and confusing and not terribly helpful.

When the meeting ends Bruce remains in the conference room, staring out the window at the city, watching cars and people without really registering them beyond a sort of visual white noise.

“Sir,” someone calls out to him, and he snaps his head up, seeing Brenda by the conference door.

“Is there another meeting in here?” he asks. “Sorry. I was thinking.”

“There isn't, not for a half hour.” She walks over to him. “Are you alright sir?”

“Fine, I was just a bit distracted.” He looks at her, at her bouncy, curly hair and her left hand, the sparkling diamond and simple band encircling her ring finger. “Do you have children?”

“Not yet,” she says, “but this new program makes it sound easier to find daycare.”

“That's the hope.” He wants to ask her more, but aside from their boss employee interactions he doesn't know much about Brenda. She's married, if the context clues based on her ring are accurate, and the photo on her desk. She's younger than Bruce, but only just. That's about it. “Do I have any meetings scheduled for this afternoon?”

“None so far. Would you like your schedule kept clear?”

“Yes. I need to get caught up on a few things.” If he has to talk with too many people he's worried he might go into a panic. “If there are any emergencies feel free to interrupt me.”

He walks back to his office shortly after Brenda leaves, one hand clutching his empty coffee mug and the other holding onto a croissant from a small bakery outlet on floor two. He pours himself a fresh cup of coffee and sits at his desk, leaning back in his chair and inhaling his mid morning snack.

_ I'm going to get some work done _ , he tells himself. He been slacking for far too long. Eventually his effectiveness as CEO is going to be called into question. Bruce sits forward and pulls a stack of papers from his inbox and starts flipping through them, sorting out the memos and important paperwork.

Shortly after he begins working his phone buzzes, and Bruce sighs with relief, snatching it up immediately and opening up the message. It's from Richard, something suspicious happening in the Narrows, a robbery maybe, or something similar. Bruce tells him to get back to class.

He still can't focus, can't get himself to look at his paperwork for more than five minutes. More than once Bruce contemplates shredding everything and starting anew.

More than once, he thinks about calling Selina. He just saw her this morning, but it already feels like days have gone by since she told him her she's pregnant. And he doesn't want to bother her before he knows where he stands.

So he calls Jim. Bruce chews on his lower lip, not sure what compelled him to call Jim in the first place, but when Jim answers with a soft hello Bruce blurts out, “I was inconsiderate, yesterday. I neglected to take your duties as commissioner into account, and I apologize for the excess strain I've caused.”

“Afternoon, Bruce,” Jim says, chuckling. “Thank you. And don't be too sorry.  I know I snapped at you.”

“We're supposed to work together, and I neglected to do that.”

“Yeah, but don't beat yourself up over it. This is new for everyone.”

Bruce nods, breathing out the residual tension he was feeling about how he'd handled himself yesterday. “We need to prioritize Victor Fries.”

“Yeah, we do. You mentioned a freezer?”

“I haven't seen him use his compact cooling system in some time, and his suit may be disrupted when I shock him. I'd like to have a backup in place.”

“Well, I can't think of any restaurants that would be willing to house him.”

Bruce agrees, “it is a lot to ask of someone.” He considers the freezer plans for the Manor, and decides to elaborate. He needs to be open about his plans. “We're going to construct a freezer at Wayne Manor. Something small, but suitable.”

“When are you going after him?”

“I don't know where he's hiding,” Bruce admits. “I'm going to have Ed continue looking, but with Strange behind his actions it's possible we won't find him until we find Strange.”

“So we're at a standstill. Great.” Jim sighs. “Honestly I'd kill for something more exciting than my paperwork right now.”

“I have to agree,” Bruce says, staring down at the piles on his desk. “When did crime fighting become so bureaucratic?”

“I'll let you in on a little secret, it's  _ always  _ been bureaucratic,” Jim says, and Bruce laughs quietly. “how about we keep each other accountable. Whoever has more paperwork in their inbox at the end of the day buys the other coffee.”

“Quantity or percentage based on what was there?” Bruce can't see Jim's desk but he imagines it isn't as buried as his.

“Percent sounds more fair, so let's go with quantity.”

“You're cruel.” But this is the motivator Bruce needs to power through his backlog. “But I also accept.”

-

The little competition with Jim helps (he loses but not by much, and he planned on thanking him with coffee anyway), so does talking to Ed, who's assured Bruce he's doing everything in his power to find Victor, but once he's home the uncomfortable atmosphere makes his anxiety return, and Bruce only waves offhandedly at Alfred as he rushes to his study for some quiet time alone.

He drinks, but only one glass, and slowly, reminded again of his father, and Bruce finds himself standing before the towering portrait hanging over the fireplace, both his parents and a much younger, more carefree version of himself staring down at him as he looks up at their faces.

“I wish you were here,” he tells his portrait parents. “I'm sure you'd know what to say. At least, I have a good idea what you would say,” he says to his mother, imagining her voice as she asks him “and why haven't you married this girl yet?”

He laughs to himself, thinking of her shocked face. He's sure she would have loved Selina for her wit and independence. He has no idea if she would have loved the sudden potential grandchild quite as much. They weren't around long enough to start talking about Bruce finding someone, let alone starting a family with them.

His father's reaction is harder to imagine. He was firm, sometimes a tad stern, but never cold. Bruce knew his father wanted what's best for his son, even if that wasn't always the easiest to determine. Would he have praised Bruce for finding someone to connect with? For finding a girl that challenges him and, in her own way, pushes Bruce to be a better person? He wishes he could just ask.

“Having a conversation with the portraits Master Bruce?”

“Afternoon, Alfred,” Bruce tells him. “I'm talking with my parents.”

“About Miss Kyle?”

“Yes. I was trying to imagine what they would say.” Bruce nods up to them. “They aren't being very helpful.”

“I think we can both imagine what your mother would have to say about this,” Alfred says, and Bruce laugh, shaking his head.

“I have an idea, yes.” Bruce's expression settles, and he motions to his father. “Do you know what he would say?”

“I can only guess, given the lack of any sort of history where he would have voiced his opinion on this particular subject, but I think he would tell you to support Miss Kyle, which you've already agreed to do. I can't imagine he'd tell you to do much else.”

“I'm still not sure how to feel, Alfred.”

“There's no real right way to feel, Master Bruce.” He pats Bruce's shoulder once and leaves his hand there. “But give yourself a little time. I was hard on the two of you this morning for good reason, but don't feel like you can't approach me about this little pregnancy you're dealing with.”

“Thank you Alfred.” He looks up at the portrait again, at young Bruce, smiling even though Bruce  _ knows  _ he was antsy that day. He remembers something about camping, although he can't remember the details. “My parents planned to have me, correct?”

“More or less,” Alfred says. “Not down to the letter or anything, but they knew it was an inevitability.”

“They wanted a child,” he reiterates. “A family.”

“Yes,” Alfred hazards. “What are you thinking, Master Bruce?”

“I miss that,” he says, clearing his throat when his voice cracks. “I miss them.”

“I know you do, sir,” Alfred says, giving Bruce's shoulder one last squeeze before releasing him. “You just have to decide if you're ready to start a new family.”

-

Bruce finds, following a day of productivity, that work isn’t near as terrible to endure. His desk isn’t buried in papers when he gets into the office (at a reasonable hour, which he attributes to finally sleeping well) and Brenda only has one phone message for him to address. There’s certainly something to be said about not procrastinating so aggressively.

He finds himself actually  _ out  _ of things to do around eleven, which is a pleasant surprise. A part of him feels like gloating, maybe taking a couple laps around the floor just to silently parade himself, as if he’s saying, ‘look at me, the  _ adult _ , I have done my paperwork and it isn’t even lunchtime yet’ but before he can genuinely entertain the idea his phone starts buzzing in his pocket, and he shakes his head when it’s Richard’s number lighting up his screen.

“Richard,” he greets, “you should be in class.”

“It’s san inservice day, actually. I have the day off, but that’s not important.”

“It is, actually, because I’m not going to condone truancy.”

“Okay, sure, that’s fair,” Richard is speaking quickly, and quietly, “but I might have found something.”

“Don’t engage,” Bruce tells him. He can’t imagine what Richard has managed to find, but he won’t let him get hurt. “Where are you?”

“Do you know that old abandoned neighborhood in the Narrows?” Richard asks. “Course you do. You’re  _ Batman _ , but anyway, I think I’ve found Poison Ivy.”

“You found  _ Ivy _ ?” Bruce looks to his desk, pristine and empty of papers, and to Brenda’s desk out in the entryway outside his office, and he ducks into his private washroom. “Where are you? Precise directions please.”

“I  _ told  _ you, the Narrows. I don’t know the street. I don’t want to be seen getting over there.”

“That’s fair. Just describe the buildings nearby. Anything unique or unusual?”

“Well,” Richard hums and Bruce can hear the scraping of tennis shoes against rock and concrete, “I think I can see the Flea? I’m near there. I’m on a roof, actually.”

“Stay there, and stay out of sight. I’ll contact you once I reach the Narrows.”

He doesn’t have time to get his armor from home. Bruce exits his wash room and pockets his phone, rushing over to write a quick note to hand to Brenda on his way out. If she calls after him he doesn’t hear what she says, and he rushes out to his car and digs through a small gym bag until he finds more casual, movable clothing, plus a stocking hat and sunglasses. Once he’s out of his suit, huddled in a back corner so no one sees him changing in the parking garage, Bruce starts his car and begins speeding towards the Narrows.

He calls Richard, who answers almost immediately with a rushed, “I saw her again! Sorry to yell.”

“This is important. I understand your excitement.” He’s been trying to figure out where Ivy might’ve gone for nearly a month. “I’m parking now. Once I’m on a roof try to direct me to the location.”

“Okay. Holy cow this is exciting.”

Bruce chuckles to himself as he slips his phone in a pocket and gets out of his car. He begins climbing a nearby fire escape, moving quickly up the flights of old, rusting stairs until he’s on the roof, looking out across the uneven buildings and ruined facades. The Narrows could really use a facelift.

“Alright Richard, I’m on a roof.” He looks all across the rooftops and notes a small, cowed figure a few buildings down, most likely Richard himself. Bruce begins making his way to the block of buildings across from Richard, anticipating he’s found himself a perch across from the building in question. “Where is she?”

“There’s a building across from me, four stories.”

Bruce crosses the street low to the ground and climbs back up, moving closer to Richard. “Do you see me?”

“I think so? I hope it’s you at least,” Richard admits. He waves tentatively Bruce waves back. “Did you wave?”

“I did. Now, which building exactly is she in?”

“Oh, you’re not in your suit?” Richard asks. “Sorry, not important. Just kind of breaks the suspension of disbelief.”

“I was at  _ work _ , Richard. I thought time was of the essence. I’m still just a person underneath the armor.”

“I know that,” he says. But Bruce can tell he’s somewhat disappointed. “Okay, the building you’re right next to, see it? She was by one of those windows.”

Bruce hops onto the roof, and then he pauses. He should have noted the familiarity of the building before, but he was focused on Richard. Only now, as he’s climbing down onto the fire escape, can Bruce confirm that Ivy’s hiding out in Selina’s apartment. “Richard, can you still see into the building?”

Bruce turns and watches Richard’s head pop up over the guard wall around the building across from Selina’s, black goggles glinting in the sun, then he pops back down. “Yes.”

“Good. Stay where you are. I suspect this will be a peaceful encounter.”

He opens the South window and crawls into Selina’s apartment, waving a hand at a few cats as they trot over to him and begin meowing. Bruce has already established himself as a reliable source of food, it seems. “I don’t think Selina would appreciate it if I spoiled you all.”

“Bruce?” He looks over towards Selina’s kitchen and finds Ivy sitting at the small table, and he blinks, surprised, but he supposes she can’t see that while he’s wearing shades. “Why are you here?”

Selina walks in before he can answer, holding two glasses of water, and she hands one to Ivy, turning to Bruce and sighing. “You would show up here right now."

"Why is Ivy here, Selina?" Bruce asks.

"I found her in the sewers. Some of Ed's informants are more," Selina pauses as she takes a drink, "eccentric. We'll go with that. She was just down there, so I made her come here."

"Ivy, why were you in the sewers?" Bruce asks.

"I don't know," she says, sounding somewhat offended. "The last thing I remember was Arkham, and then I was in that sewer where Selina found me."

"You don't remember anything?" he presses. "Nothing in Arkham led to this?"

"Well," Ivy drawls, tapping her chin and dipping a finger into her water glass, "there was that doctor guy."

"Strange?" Bruce asks. He clears his throat. "Could it have been Dr. Strange, Ivy?"

"I guess?" She shrugs. "Look, I just remember Arkham, and I guess Strange, and then the sewer, okay?"

"Fine," Bruce says. He'll have to look into whether Strange has developed a way to induce memory loss. He'll need to call Ed after he leaves Selina's place. "I should get going. Ivy, I think it might not be safe for you to stay here. Do you have somewhere else to go?"

"Well there's Arkham, I guess," she says, grimacing. "I don't want to go back there, though."

"Yes, well, I'm sure Jim would have a few things to say about that," Bruce mutters. He pulls out his phone, but before he can call Jim to get his opinion he gets a text, and then another, and they're both from Richard. He reads the first few words of the first text, 'Batman are you ok???' and he sighs, hitting the dial button and holding his phone to his ear, "hello, Richard."

"Are you in danger? Should I call for backup?"

"Bruce who are you talking to?" Selina asks.

"Richard," he whispers, then swears to himself. "Please don't spread it around."

"I literally have  _ no _ idea who you're talking to so fine, I won't 'spread it around'," she says, rolling her eyes.

"Richard, I'm fine. There's no danger here."

There's a beat or two of silence, and then Richard asks, "can I come in then? You said I couldn't fight crime when it's dangerous, but you  _ just said _ there's no danger, so," he trails off.

"Hold on," he says, and he moves the phone off his hear. "Selina, could my copycat come into your home?"

"Why?" Selina asks.

"I don't actually know," Bruce admits, "but I assume it has something to do with me."

"Weird, but fine, I guess," she says. "Let me get Ivy some more clothes first."

Now that Selina mentions it Bruce  _ does  _ realize that Ivy is in, at best, just her undergarments and a tank top. He nods, "He'll have to still make his way over from the other roof. I'll let him know to stand outside until she's ready." He moves the phone back up and stands by the window. "Richard, make your way over to the apartment I entered, but please stand outside until I open the window."

"Okay Batman, I'm on it!" He hangs up and Bruce watches Richard slide down a fire escape and run across the street.

"So you're  _ working  _ with this kid?" Selina asks.

"I told him to be my eyes and ears on the street. He called me, actually, because he saw Ivy."

"Ivy!" Selina yells at her. "I told you to stay inside!"

"I needed some sun!" she yells back. "You have a south facing window."

"Whatever," Selina says, "just sit there. I'm going to find you some pants."

Ivy rolls her eyes. "I should have hidden at the park."

"It's a bit exposed, although the weather has improved." Bruce walks over to one of Selina's armchairs and sits. "Ivy, you're sure you don't remember anything else about Strange? Maybe a therapy session, or any treatments he might have told you about?"

She frowns, head in her hand, the other still twirling around in the water glass, which has dropped in volume despite Ivy not picking it up. "I tried to use my pheromones to influence him. It's worked on the other psychiatrists, but, I don't know, he just smiled at me when I tried, and then, nothing. I was hiding out in the sewers near the park and Selina came down there looking for some informant guy."

Bruce nods. "Ivy, I think we both know that Strange did something to cause this memory loss. As long as he remains at large Gotham isn't safe for you."

"Where else am I supposed to go?" she asks. Selina returns with a pair of sweatpants before Bruce can answer.

There's a series of taps on the window, and Bruce walks over, taking a moment to ensure his hat and shades are still in place before opening the window, leaning out to prevent Richard from seeing Ivy as she dresses. "Hello Richard."

"This is kind of weird. Seeing you out of the suit, I mean." Richard holds up his hands. "I don't know your identity, of course. I'm not going to ask either."

"That's alright, Richard, just give us a moment and you can come inside." Bruce pauses. "Why  _ do  _ you want to come inside?"

"Well, I want to help, I guess." He shrugs. "Plus, well, I've never really  _ seen  _ anyone from the rogue's gallery up close, and you said it was safe, so I figure this is my one shot?"

Bruce laughs, and he steps back when he feels someone tap his shoulder. It's Selina, and she raises one eyebrow, but says nothing, and Bruce moves to the side so Richard can climb into the apartment. "Selina, this is Robin."

"Robin huh?" she asks. "Alright."

"Holy Moses!" he shouts. He's not even all the way through the window yet, and he nearly falls on his face as he climbs inside the rest of the way. "You're Catwoman!"

Selina starts laughing, and she looks at Bruce, sighing, "where the hell did you find this kid?"

"A roof," Bruce says, and she laughs again.

"Wow, I didn't know  _ Catwoman _ would be here," he gushes, which Bruce finds strangely endearing.

"Robin, you know who Selina Kyle is, and Ivy Pepper," Bruce says, "but now you can meet them properly."

"You can call me Cat, kid," Selina tells him. "If we're  _ all  _ doing the nickname thing. Just call her Ivy."

"Okay," he says, shaking his head vigorously.

"Now that we're all introduced," Bruce starts, "I think we need to discuss the important matter at hand. Ivy, Gotham's streets are not safe for you. If you're willing, you should come with me to my home. You can stay there, and possibly help us track down Strange. I seem to remember your plants having the ability to alert you when someone is nearby."

"No," Ivy shakes her head. "No, I'm not going anywhere near that guy ever again."

"But Ivy," Bruce starts, but Selina motions over to the nook with her bed, and Bruce follows her. "Selina, Ivy isn't safe here in Gotham."

"Yeah, I  _ know  _ that." Selina looks over to Ivy, and Richard, who's shifting awkwardly on his feet. "She's freaked, okay? I think Strange must have threatened her or something. She kept," Selina sighs, "she was shouting about him, freaking out that he was going to  _ find  _ her in the sewer. As if he'd go crawling around in there himself."

"Strange makes people act irrationally," Bruce posits. Possibly from personal experience.

"Yeah, you don't have to tell me that," she whispers. "Look, I know you want to help, but forcing her to stay with you isn't going to work. She'd just run off."

"Right," he sighs. "We'll figure something out for her." He crosses his arms. "How are you doing? About?"

Selina side eyes across the room, and looks at Bruce. "I don't know yet. Ed's doing some research for me before I decide anything."

"Good," Bruce nods. "I'm glad you've found suitable help."

Selina half smiles and tilts her head to one side, tapping a finger on his shades. "These are dorky, by the way."

"I needed to hide my identity and I don't have my suit."

"Well, whatever works I guess." She motions over to the kitchen. "We should get back over there before your biggest fan blows a gasket."

"Agreed." Bruce lets Selina lead the way over to the kitchen area and Bruce reclaims his armchair. Richard moves so he's closer to Bruce, standing to the right of his chair and leaning on the arm.

Bruce nods to Selina, and she takes charge of the conversation. "Okay, so we all agree that it isn't safe for Ivy to go back to the greenhouse or anywhere else Strange could find her, but Ivy, you don't want to go to," she falters when she can't say Bruce's name, " _ his  _ place."

"No way." Ivy shakes her head. "And not Arkham. They're on to me there."

"There's always the circus," Richard offers, and Bruce watches Selina as she tries to not laugh. "What?"

"Ivy is somewhat recognizable," Bruce tells Richard. "The circus is bound to draw a large crowd, and someone there will know who she is, even if she's wearing a costume. We need to figure out a secluded, secret place for Ivy to stay since she doesn't want to stay at my place."

"Yeah, I guess the circus sounds like a bad idea," Richard agrees. "Does it have to be in Gotham?"

"It would be nice if you could stay somewhat close to Gotham, Ivy," Bruce tells her. She makes a grossed out face. "There isn't an ideal situation in this instance. If you're close to Gotham we could still come help you if Strange finds you. The farther you are, the more difficult it is to make sure you're alright."

"Okay, fine," Ivy crosses her arms. "Do you have  _ any _ place in mind?"

"Well," Bruce sits back, thinking, "I have one. Selina, Robin, do either of you know much about the caves under Arkham Island?"

"Sort of," Selina says. "I know they're there."

"Some of the kids in my class like to brag about going down there, but I don't think anyone has. There's this big pillar that fell over in one of the tunnels. Hardly anyone could climb over it."

So he's been there, and he's tried to get down in them. Bruce remembers doing the same thing around his age. "There's a second entrance along the side of the cliffs. It's difficult to get to, although with your vines, Ivy, you should be able to reach the entrance with no trouble. You should get enough light from the various openings in the cave formations, but if not I'm sure we could open up a few more holes if need be."

Ivy uncrosses her arms and pouts, recrosses them, and then she sighs. "Okay, fine. Sure. I'll go live in the caves."

"It's only temporary," Bruce assures her. "And either Selina or Robin will stop by to check on you." He'll double check with Jim, of course, because he's sure he won't like Richard going to check on Ivy, but if they get something set up beforehand he's sure Ivy can pop up to the surface for a few moments for Richard to see her. "And if you ever need something, feel free to come by my home or Selina's," he pauses to make sure she's okay with this, and Selina nods, "and we'll help any way we can."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I legit forgot to post this this morning D:

It's unusual when the person greeting them at the Manor is Jim, but only just, and Ed hands over his bag to him as he and Oswald enter. Jim grumbles something that sounds a bit like 'ungrateful’ and a few other words he can't quite hear, but it's not his fault Jim decided to act as an impromptu butler for his and Oswald's arrival.

“I didn't expect to see you here, James,” Oswald comments as he tries to get Jim to also take his bag. Jim drops Ed's onto a nearby bench and motions for Oswald to do the same, which he does with a long suffering sigh. “You really must work on your people skills.”

“It's been a long day already, Oswald, please.” He turns towards Ed next. “Ed, did your informants have anything?”

“Nothing so far. I need to speak with Selina. Some of them only talk to me through her. In any case, we found no bugs in our home before leaving. Bruce is sweeping the Manor, I assume?”

“Yeah, he called me in to help. Nothing so far.” Jim shakes his head. “I was kind of hoping with you both being retired that this would, I don't know, stop?”

“Wishful thinking James,” Oswald says with a sympathetic pat to Jim's arm. “We'll do our best to stay out of trouble.”

Jim raises one eyebrow. “Somehow I don't believe you.”

Oswald gasps, mockingly shocked, and puts a hand over his heart. “Why  _ James  _ I am  _ hurt _ . I have done  _ nothing  _ to warrant such callous behavior.”

“You took something from  _ Barbara _ , Oswald. You didn't think she would retaliate?”

“I _bought_ something that was _for sale._ It's not _my_ fault she's losing a grip on her empire.” Oswald huffs, and Ed puts a hand on his shoulder. “I thought we were supposed to be a _team_ , but I can see you don't understand the concept. Maybe I can enlighten you. Don't blame me for Barbara's actions.”

“I'm not,” Jim says. Oswald scoffs. “Okay, I am, but can you honestly tell me you had  _ no  _ idea she would get angry? That you didn't realize buying this out from under her could look like a passive aggressive move?”

“I don't see how that could matter,” Oswald sniffs.

“Oswald,” Jim says in a warning tone.

He rolls his eyes. “It's  _ possible _ I feel a certain sense of schadenfreude at her expense.  _ Possibly _ .” Oswald points angrily, adding, “but I did  _ not  _ know it was her property until I was already working with a broker.”

Ed isn't certain if that's one hundred percent true, but he supports Oswald with a firm nod. “Barbara made the first strike at the library. She has a weak handle at best on her brokers, and I'm expecting word to reveal that her influence is falling. I also suspect she sought me out so quickly to appear stronger than she is.”

“Even if that's true,” Jim says, “she's still a danger to the two of you. Try to stay inside as much as possible until we find her.”

“It shouldn't be a problem,” Oswald assures Jim. “Ed, let's get settled and let Commissioner Gordon do his job.”

“Jim,” Ed nods, and he offers his arm to Oswald, who takes is gladly, sighing as he eases weight off his leg. “You should have used the brace, Oswald.”

“It's just a  _ cramp _ , Ed.” He hisses as they mount the first step. “Just a  _ stress  _ cramp, actually. Once that nuisance Barbara Keane is out of our hair I'm sure it will ease up.”

So he is stressed, or, more accurately, he's probably stressed about Ed's encounter in the library, which happened while he was unarmed and unprotected, although he thinks he handled the situation admirably. “I could give you a massage. Or attempt to plan against Barbara’s supposed attacks.”

“A massage is a nice short term solution, but in my opinion the best thing you can do is just stay here at the Manor until Barbara is dealt with,” Oswald says through gritted teeth. “Hold on a moment, wait, it's getting worse.”

“Oswald we should have stayed downstairs.”

“There are less  _ windows  _ in our usual room Ed. I'll manage, just give me a  _ minute. _ ” He huffs, gasping as what Ed assumes is a peel of pain nearly makes him fall over on the stairs. Ed holds him steady, and Oswald grips his arm tightly, painfully, but he nods stiffly and they continue. “We're already past the halfway point in any case.”

Ed has to agree with him, but it doesn't make the next set of stairs any easier. Oswald can barely apply any pressure on his leg by the time they reach the second floor, and he's unable to even bend over to remove his shoes once they reach the bedroom. Instead he lies on the bed, clutching at his leg and trying to rub the cramp away while Ed pulls off his shoes and begins a slow, steady massage at his ankle. He works his way up Oswald's twitching calf, slowly working loose the tight, tense muscles.

“I could run a bath,” he offers.

“I would accept the offer if I thought I could get up afterwards,” Oswald tells him, and Ed moans sympathetically, moving up over the actual cramp, which causes Oswald to hiss in pain before some of the tension begins to drain away, the heavy creases on his forehead settling until he's left with his subtle age lines and some sweat. “Thank you.”

“I won't go anywhere,” Ed assures him. He already packed up his work in a large file box and Bruce has his databases. “Not alone, at least.”

“I'll do my best to do the same.” Oswald reaches out for Ed and he abandons massaging Oswald's leg in favor of lying with him, his head resting on Oswald's chest. “You’ll be toiling away in his lab I suppose.”

“I have to update Ivy's status, and I've begun working a bit harder on Freeze's whereabouts. I haven't scheduled anything aside from that.” Although he needs to speak with Selina regarding his research for her. “I can perform research from here with my tablet.”

“Do that,” Oswald tells him, and Ed nods. “I have a sneaking suspicion that this bed and I will be very well acquainted with one another after today.”

-

“May 11th, Selina has finished helping settle Ivy into her temporary location, and she's agreed to meet with me this afternoon.” He pauses his recorder and sighs. “I've grown somewhat bored.”

He's looking at a blueprint for Freeze's personal coolant system, somewhat baffled, somewhat disinterested, and he zooms in on the file. Physically, it's simplistic enough, with straps and tubes running across Victor's key temperature points, but the blueprint tells him nothing about the compound used to actually cause the system to work, leaving Ed to busy himself tweaking the design but somewhat stuck regarding the actual chemicals required. “Freeze has kept most of his information elsewhere, or possibly works based solely off memory. I am at a standstill unless I can get a sample of his coolant, or the procedure he uses.”

He leans against Oswald, who's done a wonderful job of just letting Ed lounge about on top of him while he researches various topics. “Oswald the world would be much easier to traverse if everyone just gave me the information I desire.”

“I'm sure that's true for a lot of people,” he tells Ed while sipping at a cup of coffee. He's still essentially bedridden, but improving, and Ed suspects he's possibly not even in excess pain anymore, but he enjoys the excuse to spoil Oswald for a few days. It's certainly more exciting than the drivel he's reading on his tablet. “Are you done working?”

“I'm waiting for Selina.” It's only eleven, so he has a long wait, but he would prefer it if she didn't arrive when he's in the middle of working, or something like that. Or he's just feeling a bit lazy. One of those is certainly true. “How are you feeling?”

“Well, aside from any boredom, I'm feeling alright, certainly better than yesterday.” He pets Ed's hair with his coffeeless hand. “I must admit I'm finding this laying low strategy rather tedious.”

“Enough to act?” Ed asks. If Oswald has a plan Ed's willing to help, but he's not going to necessarily enjoy it either.

“Enough to complain louder. I'm not an  _ idiot _ . I know we don't have a street force excluding Selina, and I'm sure there is a  _ limit  _ to what she should be doing for work.” Ed's actually rather familiar with those limitations, courtesy of the library's materials, but he's certain Oswald isn't actually asking for that information for himself. “With Zsasz in Arkham and Gabe more retired than we are, I'm afraid we're going to have to rely on Jim and Bruce for this.”

Ed knows Oswald hates having to hand over his potential safety to others, but their hands are figuratively tied. “Bruce is capable.”

“He is. He's also horribly distracted right now.”

“Understandable, given the circumstances.”

“It's not all that encouraging,” Oswald sighs. “But beggars can't be choosers I suppose.”

“We’ll be in a better position once I speak with Selina. My informants should give us an idea of what she’s planning.”

-

“You're looking right at home,” Selina says as she walks over to Ed. “Nice desk.”

“I think it's cherry wood,” Ed tells her. He stacks his papers into a neat pile and leans back in the desk chair. It's a very nice chair, with cushioned arm rests and a very tall back, tall enough for Ed to lean his head against the rest and not get a neck ache. “Bruce said I could make myself comfortable.”

“Well, it's a good thing you're sitting down then, because I have bad news. The grid's gone dark. I have nothing for  you.”

He scowls and leans forward. “What do you mean the grid has gone dark?”

“Like I said, the have nothing. Zilch. I think Babs might've threatened some people, and word gets around fast.” Selina shrugs. “Sorry. Not much you can do.”

“It isn't your fault.” Ed rubs his temples. “This is  _ not  _ the news I was hoping for.”

No grid means no data, no informants, and he  _ relies  _ on these informants to keep him in the loop regarding Gotham's many villains. Strange is on that list, and Barbara, Joker, countless others really. He feels like a spider without silk, just an eight legged, loathed creature bumbling around.

Today is chocking up to be a negative two at the rate his thoughts are going. He need to focus, or rather, ignore the problem for now and focus on something he can do well at.

“Would you like to discuss your research?” he asks.

“What about the network?”

“Nothing to be done until Jim apprehends Barbara.” He pulls out a three ring binder, one he's sectioned off per the three trimesters, birth, and possible termination. It's color coded and filled to the brim, all two inches of space utilized in the most efficient way possible. “Besides, I feel rather accomplished with my research.”

“Woah, okay, I told you give me the  _ bullet points _ .”

“This is for me,” he says, gesturing to the binder. “I'll give you the simplified version as discussed.”

“Good,” she sighs, “alright, let's just get this over with.”

“Right,” Ed watches Selina rub the bridge of her nose as he opens the binder to week nine. “You're not certain how long it's been, correct?”

“I could maybe guess but yeah, I don't know.”

“I'm going to guess, based on,” he pauses, “you're going to yell at me if I ask details about you and Bruce's schedule I assume?”

“I'm going to tell you it's none of your beeswax since you're not a doctor.”

“Fair enough,” he sighs. He's not going to win today. “In that case, in order to move forward, I think you should get an ultrasound.”

“But I haven't decided anything,” she groans. “Did Bruce tell you to say that?”

Ed creases his brow, confused, and shakes his head. “I'm only basing this off of my research. Have you felt any pain or had unusual bleeding? Even if you don't want to continue the pregnancy it's important to determine whether anything life threatening is occuring.” Her eyes get steadily wider as he talks. “There's a number of things that can go absolutely  _ haywire  _ when someone is pregnant. I found some medical journals describing-”

“Ed, no, don't tell me this.” She rubs her hands over her face. “Jesus.”

“Sorry.”

“This is just a mess, okay? It's not you, mostly not you.” She crosses her arms. “So you think I should get an ultrasound?”

“I think it's a good first step. I'd hate for you to choose an option and have it be ripped away from you, so to speak. Just to make sure things aren't going wrong for you or Bat Jr.”

“Oh my God, no,” she laughs. “Don't call it that. Bruce's little copycat is definitely Bat Jr. This is just his baby.”

There's no real  _ just  _ about it, but Ed nods. “So, if you'd like I can attempt to schedule something for you.”

Selina's face falls. “I'm not going to a hospital.”

“That is generally where this sort of thing occurs.”

“Okay, sure, maybe for most people, but I'm not exactly  _ most  _ people.” Selina pulls up a chair in front of the desk and sits. “If I set even one foot in a hospital someone will recognize me, and they'll call the cops. You too, in case you forgot.”

He hadn't planned on going with Selina, but is seems she had other plans. Interesting. “There aren't really any other options.”

“Oh come on, the guy with a  _ spy network _ in the city doesn't know a  _ doctor _ ? Don't do this to me Ed.”

“I'm not  _ doing  _ anything, I'm merely stating that options are slim. Most doctors willing to do something off record are going to want a fair amount of money.”

Selina leans back in her chair, and mutters, “could get Bruce to pay, I guess.”

“You don't want to.”

“I don't want to pretend that's always going to be an option to fall back on,” she explains. “So pretend it isn't. You have to have  _ something.  _ You're like,  _ the  _ guy to go to for information in Gotham.”

“Well,” he smiles at the compliment, “give me a minute to think.”

Truth be told, Ed knows plenty of doctors, but the key part is knowing someone that will do them both a favor, a trait he finds lacking in most of his acquaintances. But Selina is offering up an awful lot of trust in he hopes that Ed will provide adequate help, and he doesn't want to let her down, not when his preferred livelihood’s reputation is on the line. A good detective knows people that are willing to go the extra mile, to help those in need, but he spent so many years as the Riddler, alienating people and damning himself to a very isolated life outside Oswald and this little group, half of which are still being actively hunted by the police. And although he'd like to claim that he can figure out how to read an ultrasound he's not going to give himself quite that much credit, at least not in the short term.

“Ed come on you have to know  _ somebody _ .”

“Lee,” he whispers. “I know Lee.”

“Lee… as in Leslie Thompkins? You're joking.”

“No, not in the slightest.” He licks his lips, looking down at the photo he's put on his desk, mentally apologizing to Oswald for his current line of thinking. “It's not ideal, I know that, but I have nothing else.”

“She's not going to agree to any of this Ed!”

“Leslie is thoughtful, and kind, and she wants to help people. We go to her, or we go to a hospital, or you trust a back alley doctor to give you adequate care. Those are the options I have. The choice is ultimately yours, but I will  _ not  _ set foot in a hospital.”

-

“Please wait around the block for my call,” Ed tells Gabe.

“I already have standing orders,” he tells Ed. “Across the street, car running.”

“I see,” Ed sighs. He pulls out his phone to call Oswald, and he picks up almost immediately. “You're unhappy. I can explain.”

“We  _ just  _ agreed to stay at the Manor and here you are driving  _ across town  _ in  _ broad daylight _ because Selina asked?”

“I’m sorry. This is unfortunately the only option Selina has.”

“I'm only as composed as I am because you at least thought to  _ warn  _ me, even if you did make Gabe tell me instead of saying so yourself.” Oswald huffs a few times, mutters something under his breath, and asks, “are you certain you have no other options?”

“According to the GCPD database she's still a wanted criminal. Hospitals are not an option.”

“Well then why are  _ you  _ there? She's perfectly capable.”

Ed looks back at Selina, who's opted to put in some headphones for the drive to Lee's home. She's staring out the window, looking sullen, sighing moodily on occasion. “I'm not so sure. Or, perhaps more accurately, she's unwilling to do this alone.”

“Well then let  _ Bruce  _ go with her.”

Ed bites his lip. “I don't think they're seeing eye to eye.”

He doesn't elaborate, and Oswald doesn't ask. Instead he says, “just be careful. And  _ leave  _ if you get even the slightest  _ hint  _ of suspicion.”

“I brought along a few darts.” For Barbara, of course. Lee wouldn't attack him. Although, now that he thinks about it, that's not entirely true. “We'll be quick.”

“I swear Edward Nygma, sometimes you're impossible.” The sense of disappointment coming from Oswald is sudden enough to make Ed gasp quietly. “But so am I, at times, so I suppose you're owed at least one foolish decision every so often.”

“I’ll be home later this evening,” he promises. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Just be  _ careful _ for once in your life.”

“Agreed,” Ed says, and the line clicks as Oswald hangs up. “Selina, we're here,” he says loudly, and Selina pops a bud out of her ear. “We've arrived.”

“Let's get this over with,” she says. Gabe parks across from a small single story home nestled in a quiet suburb not unlike Ed and Oswald's current home. The house is brick with cream siding, and in a large bay window a small dog is lounging on a pillow. If his research is still accurate Lee lives alone, although he remembers seeing something about an adoption in the papers. He didn't follow up the lead. His concerns lie with Lee and her medical degree.

He and Selina walk up the small cement path to her door and Ed knocks twice, leaning back a fraction and glancing into the window as the small dog barks.

“This is nuts,” Selina whispers, and Ed has to agree, but it's far too late to back out now.

The door opens and Lee, still beautiful with just a few streaks of gray in her hair and wrinkles around her eyes, looks at the two of them, and she nearly shuts the door in their faces before Ed jams his good leg in between the door and the frame. “If you'll give me just one moment to explain-”

“I'm calling the police,” Lee says.

"We're not here to antagonize, Ms. Thompkins. Please, just hear me out."

"Why?" she explains, but she stops trying to shut the door on his foot. "You're  _ both  _ wanted by the police. You belong in Arkham, especially  _ you _ ," she says to Ed, and he flinches. "There isn't a reason you could possibly give me to  _ not  _ call the police right now."

"Call Jim," Ed shouts, then he backs up, giving her space. "Please, call Jim. We've been working with him. He trusts us. He'll explain." Lee gives him a level, disbelieving look. "Please, just call Jim Gordon, and if his answer does not satisfy you, then I suppose you have every right to call the authorities."

Lee says nothing for almost a minute, sizing the two of them up, and she sighs. " _ Stay here _ ," she says firmly, and Ed nods. She closes the front door and leaves them out on the steps.

"This is the worst idea you've ever had," Selina tells him.

"It's not ideal," he admits. He can already imagine his shadow self laughing, even though he hasn't shown up to laugh in Ed's face yet today.

"And when she just calls the cops with us waiting out here? What then?"

"There's a scanner in the car," Ed says. It's probably why Oswald insisted Gabe be so close. "It won't be an issue."

"You're shaking," she tells him, and Ed looks at his hands, at the way they're trembling, and he pockets them. "She freak you out?"

"She is," Ed gulps, "as of right now I've given Leslie Thompkins no reason to believe I've changed since we last interacted."

"Swell," Selina sighs heavily. "Well, nothing to do but wait I guess."

Ed practices a few apologies in his head for when the door opens (if it opens) but nothing really feels good enough. Lee was always this kind, accepting person, floating about the GCPD as if she was just  _ better  _ than the rest of them, but not in a high-and-mighty, gloating way. If anything she possibly didn't even realize she had such an air of good around her. It's just who she  _ is _ , plain and simple. Ed's never felt the weight of his actions more than in the presence of Leslie Thompkins.

When the door opens all the air Ed's been holding rushes out in a long sigh, and he smiles, which causes Lee to pause in opening the door, but then she shakes her head, and says, "come in." As Ed passes her, nodding in thanks, she whispers, "Jim is incredibly pissed with you. I'd expect a call."

Well, it's not like he didn't  _ expect  _ that repercussion. "I assumed he would. Thank you."

She leads the two of them to the first room of her home, a sitting room with modern, straight line couches and no television. The yappy dog, a tiny mixed breed something, yips as it runs at Ed's legs, barking up at him. He can't tell if it's threatening him or demanding attention, but he's not fond of dogs either way.

"Sit," Lee tells them, and the two of them choose the same couch. Selina sits at an angle, scrunched so she's leaning against the arm and the back, and Ed sits straight backed, watching as she leaves them in the sitting room long enough to go to her kitchen and return with water. "Would either of you like anything?"

"No, thank you," Ed says. He's putting a lot of focus on keeping his hands from shaking in his pockets, and he'll only drop a glass if he's given one.

"I'd take a water," Selina says, and Lee hands her glass over before leaving again. "Nice place," Selina calls after her, "but dogs are kind of shit."

"He was a gift," she says as she sits, and Lee holds her arms up as, predictably, the dog hops up into her lap, "weren't you Bosco? That's the day I learned that nothing's free." She sets her water glass aside and folds her hands over the dog's back. "Now, why are you here?"

Ed looks to Selina, and she shrugs, nodding to him. He nods back, licking his lips nervously, and saying, "Selina is pregnant. We were hoping-"

Lee hold up a hand and he stops. She doesn't say anything for a moment, but when she does she keeps her hand up, "I have a few questions first."

"That seems fair."

"Did you get her pregnant Ed?"

"No, no of course not," he laughs nervously, Selina sits up beside him and glares when he looks over. "No, I did not," he says again, calmer.

"Okay." Lee is quiet again, then she says, "whose is it?"

"That's none of your business," Selina scoffs.

Lee is quiet, contemplative, and then she smiles slightly, saying, "it's Bruce Wayne's isn't it."

Ed's eyes go wide and he looks to Selina, who's equally as wide eyed. "I didn't say it."

"Yeah but you just  _ confirmed  _ it," Selina hisses at him.

Ed looks to Lee, and back to Selina, "I said nothing to suggest this is true."

"Ed, honey," it feels almost like an insult when she calls him that, "You kind of did. And I've known those two since they were teenagers. It was an educated guess."

"Because of their past relationship?"

"Yes, and because Selina saying it wasn't my business tells me she probably knows the father. And she's talking to a doctor, as unorthodox as this visit is. And because Bruce Wayne is a powerful, influential person, and if you're not going to a hospital then it must be because you want this to be quiet. Why you went to me is baffling, frankly, but he's not the first person to want some discretion." She leans forward. "So, you're pregnant," she says to Selina.

"Looks that way," Selina snaps back.

"And it's Bruce's."

"We literally  _ just  _ covered that," Selina sighs.

"I'm just trying to get up to speed. So, now that that's out of the way, why are you here?" Ed looks at Lee, beseeching, hoping she'll just suss this one out too. He's not really equipped to handle this kind of conversation without Oswald here. He really wishes Oswald was here. Lee watches Ed, and then her expression changes into something disbelieving, "you've got to be kidding me."

"Well, you're a  _ doctor _ , and one of the few I know personally, so-"

Lee stops him for a moment, "Bosco, off," shoos the dog off her lap so she can sit forward properly, "Ed, just be straight with me. Why are you here?"

"Selina has not seen a doctor for prenatal care, and we're asking for your help."

Lee rests her forehead on her fingers, "I was hoping you weren't going to say that, and then you did." She shakes her head. "Ed, why are you  _ here _ ? In my  _ home _ ?"

Selina groans, "he already  _ told  _ you. I need one of those scan things."

"Ultrasound," Ed says, covering his face with his hands.

"That doesn't explain why you you came  _ here _ . Do you think I keep ultrasound equipment in my  _ home _ ?" Lee sits back, looking up at the ceiling. "Of all the possible reasons you could have given me, this is one I didn't expect. Why did you think this was a good idea?"

Oh, hindsight is  _ not  _ going to be kind when he looks back at this day. He moves his hands off his face and folds them in his lap. "In the event that you rejected our request we can leave quietly without making any sort of scene. It was a courtesy."

"Look, Ed," Selina stands, setting her glass on an end table and straightening her clothes, "this was a  _ bad  _ idea, okay? Sorry he's being kind of dumb right now, I swear the guy's usually smart. We'll get out of your hair."

"Yes," Ed agrees, "you have my sincerest apologies, Ms. Thompkins. We'll leave you alone."

He gets up and follows Selina, but Lee follows them to the door. He turns back around, watching as she sighs heavily, looking up, possibly praying silently, and then she looks back at Ed. "Selina, you've gotten zero care so far?"

"None," she tells her. "Don't worry about it though. You were  _ his  _ idea."

"Why, Ed? Why me?"

Ed raises his shoulders, but not in a full shrug. It feels like he's trying to hide. "Because you're intelligent. You're well trained in the medical field. And because you're kind, and thoughtful. You want to help others. And you're sympathetic," Ed hazards. He's really trying to appease to the sympathetic side right now.

Lee looks away for a moment, behind them and to the car where Gabe sits, and she crosses her arms against the evening chill. "I work late some nights at the hospital. As long as there aren't any emergencies I can access the equipment without being bothered. How far along are you, Selina?"

"Dunno. Eight weeks, nine? Maybe."

"Okay," Lee nods. "On a slow night I'll call. Soon. If you don't show, that's it. You only get one chance."

"Thank you," Ed sighs in relief. "Leslie, sorry, Ms. Thompkins-"

"Just call me Lee, Ed." She nods to the car. "I think you should both go for now so I can process this."

"If you change your mind," Ed says, "you'll still call?"

"Yes, Ed. I'm not going to leave Selina hanging."

-

He's only  _ just  _ stepped out of Gabe's car back at the Manor when Jim comes barreling out of the front door, glaring at Ed, and he tries to appear smaller but it's far too late.

"So I'll be inside," Selina says quickly, and Gabe is already driving away, leaving Ed to cower in place with no semblance of cover as Jim 'righteous fury' Gordon grabs his sleeve and demands, "inside. Now."

"Of course," Ed nods. "This is about Lee, I presume. And let me say I'm sorry for involving you-"

Jim drags him inside and slams the door shut, nearly slamming Ed into the closed door but he stops, and forces his hand off Ed's arm. Ed hadn't realized he was holding his breath until Jim lets go; he gasps and shrinks away. "Why did you go to Lee, Ed."

"Well, she's a doctor," he starts, swallowing past a panicked lump in his throat. "And, well Selina needs a doctor, at present, and I thought-"

"You went to her  _ home _ . Made me  _ vouch  _ for you when I had  _ no idea  _ what you were planning. Explain yourself."

Ed searches behind Jim, looking for Selina, or Oswald, yes, he wants Oswald here. Needs him,  _ right now _ . He closes his eyes and blurts everything out in a rush, "Selina is pregnant. She's pregnant, and she needs medical care. And Lee agreed to do things off record. Hospitals, if we go, we'll get arrested. Lee won't call the police. That's all."

Jim shakes his head, and he walks away, stomping, and Ed moves, shaking, until he's sitting on a bench near the door. He breathes deeply, calming himself, still mentally calling for Oswald but not as strongly. Edges start solidifying again the more he breathes, and he feels the panic slipping away.

When Jim comes to sit beside him he jumps, and he scoots until he's nearly falling off the edge. "Sorry," is the first thing Jim says. Ed looks over at him, blinking fast. "I'm still angry with you."

"I'm sorry," Ed says, cowed and still shaky. "She's, I didn't threaten, or force her. She can change her mind."

"Ed," Jim says, quieter still, and Ed takes a breath, "I haven't spoken to Lee in at least a year. And then she calls me out of nowhere, because you and Selina are at her door, claiming you're on my side."

"We  _ are _ ," Ed counters.

"Yeah, and that means you  _ tell  _ me when you plan to do this shit. We're working together, but only if you  _ tell  _ me.” He closes his eyes and leans back against the wall. “Am I the last to hear about her pregnancy?"

"Possibly. I assumed you knew, actually." Bruce must not have said anything to Jim. "She asked me to help her, and I asked Lee to help us. Lee is both qualified and understanding."

"She is," Jim agrees. "Just, tell me if you're going to drag her into anything else, okay? She severed ties with all of this ages ago. Don't go dragging her back down just because she was nice to you." Jim sighs. "Sorry I grabbed you like that."

"I'm fine," he says, feeling old defenses slip back into place. Old, dusty things he hasn't recalled in quite some time.

"No, you aren't," he says, pointing out Ed's shaking hands. Ed pockets them. "And it's my fault."

"You don't have to pity me," he says. "I shouldn't have gone."

"And I shouldn't have snapped," Jim says firmly. "And if you'd told me your idea, I'd have probably agreed with you." Jim shakes his head. "I'm sorry, again. Everybody has that one thing that makes them a little crazy, I guess.” He looks Ed in the eye. “You going to be alright?"

"Yes. I'm going to go find Oswald," Ed says, and Jim pats Ed on the back once, lightly, and Ed sighs in relief when he doesn't flinch. “Excuse me.”

He hurries from the foyer and starts climbing the stairs. It isn't just Jim, he was just the tipping point, a single marble dropped on top of precariously stacked glasses. It's really Barbara's attack, his network going dark for the first time in years, Lee somehow treating him like a person worthy of her sympathy, Selina putting all this unusual faith in him; he's going to need a couple days to process the last week.


	11. Chapter 11

“I wanted to see you sooner, but things have been rather hectic recently,” Bruce explains to Zsasz. “You've been taking your medication. That's good.” He doesn't get any reply from the stoic man across from him, but he didn't really expect one. “I need to apologize. I acted rashly, and you're the one suffering the consequences. I'm sorry my recommendation caused you undue strain.”

He's seen Victor Zsasz like this before, quiet, gloomy, he'd assumed it was because something was wrong. Now he's coming to understand it's from the medication, the first few tentative weeks’ worth still trying to equilibrate in his system.

Reality is rather harsh at times.

“Barbara Keane is after Oswald and Ed.” The moment he says this something shifts, and Zsasz leans forward, finally showing some interest in the conversation. “I can't let you out. I just want to keep everyone in the loop, yourself included. Do you know of anyone in Arkham that works for her?”

Zsasz shrugs one shoulder. “No one.”

“Does that mean there isn't anyone or you don't know of anyone?”

Zsasz scowls. “You pick.”

“I'm trying to help them,” he leans forward himself, voice firm but maybe too loud. Zsasz doesn't flinch. “I'm sorry you got in the way of my clouded judgement. You shouldn't have had to endure the increase in your security. But you shouldn't be off your medication.”

Zsasz looks away, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Feels off.”

“You should tell your doctor.”

“Didn't mean the meds, BW.” Zsasz leans back, taking deep, even breaths. Calming exercises, or maybe something else. “Atmosphere's changed.”

“What do you mean by atmosphere?” he asks, and Zsasz shrugs. “that’s not terribly helpful.”

“Hard to explain. Had to be here I guess.” He crosses his arms on the table and rests his chin on top of them. “Before Strange.”

“He isn't the director, and Commissioner Gordon found the person you assumed was Strange.” Bruce pulls a file out of his briefcase and shoes it to Zsasz. “He's a new nurse in B wing.”

“This isn't him,” Zsasz says, idly flipping through the file without lifting his head.

Bruce feels a slight chill run down his back. “You're confirming he isn't Strange?”

“Yep, this guy doesn't have the glasses. Rose colored glasses. You know that saying? Can't remember.” Zsasz flips the file shut again and slides it back over. “Anyway, this isn't the guy.”

Bruce tucks the file away and watches his hand shaking. He keeps them under the table. “You're certain?”

“Yep.”

“You still have your alert pager?” Zsasz pulls it out from somewhere on his person and mines clicking it twice. “Remain vigilant. If your medication changes without your knowledge give us warning. Don't refuse to take it unless you have evidence.”

“Just how reliable does this evidence have to be?”

“Victor-”

“You really aren't any fun anymore you know that?”

Bruce sighs, taking the time to look around the room, searching for any obvious signs that he might be under secret surveillance while he's talking to Zsasz. So far he's seen nothing, but he should bring an accessory scanner in next time to be sure. For now, he feels safe enough. “Selina is pregnant.”

“Woah now  _ that  _ is some wild news. You've been holding out on me.”

“It’s stressful. We don’t know what we’re going to do yet.”

Zsasz nods. He offers some “sage” advice, “take it from me, kids are little monsters.”

Bruce chuckles. “You seem happier when you're not attempting to shut me out. Is it a front or have you found a way to be happy?"

“Have you?” Zsasz asks, and Bruce doesn't have an answer.

“I need to get going.” He stands and grabs his briefcase. “Take care, Victor. Try to find any of Barbara's team here at Arkham. It's possible she may try to get them out if she's building up her forces.”

“Take care of yourself B,” Zsasz tells him on his way out. Bruce nods once and hurries down the hallway, feeling itchy and uncomfortable within Arkham's walls.

-

“You haven't found anything?” Bruce asks Ed as he sits at the breakfast table. “Good morning, also.”

Ed chuckles lightly. “Good morning. And no, I haven't. It seems Freeze has figuratively fallen off the grid. I suspect Strange has a few places not registered with the city where Freeze can be kept in relative comfort. We're going to have to get creative to find him.”

“Power use, maybe,” Bruce suggests. “Cross referenced with temperature maps.”

Ed tips his head to one side, stirring his coffee as he thinks. “We'll need someone to physically map temperatures for us. Weather forecasts are too broad, and don't include minute changes. A freezer capable of holding a temperature of minus twenty would generate a lot of heat outside the actual freezer area.” Ed takes a drink of his coffee. “I'm bound to crack but only when cold.”

Bruce thinks for a minute, eating a few bites of his cereal and blinking away residual sleep. “Ice. Did you have any tangent you wanted to discuss?”

“We've seen no sign of Nora. No reports, no mentions aside from Freeze. We're certain there's a Nora to find?”

“I've seen her,” he assures him. Only once, admittedly, but he remembers the day very clearly, the day Fries dropped his gun on the ground and held up his hands, begging Bruce to follow him, to listen to his request, and he's thankful he did. He wouldn't have believed him otherwise. “She's in a cryo tube, unless she's thawing. I can't imagine he would do that now though, between Strange and PharmaGo going up in flames.”

“And ice,” Ed adds. “But I do have good news. I've nearly perfected the procedure. My last sample was ninety-eight percent pure.”

“Is that sufficient?”

“For most.” He shrugs. “It wouldn't hurt her if that's what you mean.”

“Good.” Bruce looks at his half empty plate, then back up to Ed. “Where is Oswald?”

“Wallowing in self pity,” Ed says with a grin. “He has to do  _ paperwork. _ ”

Bruce understands all too well the internal struggle Oswald must be going through. Thank goodness it's the weekend. “Are you busy?”

“I might work on the treatment. It isn't vital.” Ed leans in a bit. “Did you have something in mind?”

“I might have someone willing to map for us. Do you think infared thermometers would be sufficient?”

-

Bruce doesn't bother putting on his suit again today, but he's wearing a loose jacket and his shades, the hood pulled up and sinched to hide his hair and ears. He's waiting on a roof in uptown, the northmost roof specifically, and he taps his communicator. “Is your map live, Ed?”

“Nearly,” he says. “Test the thermometer for me. You're on the roof, correct?”

“Yes,” he says as he pulls out the infrared thermometer and turns it on. He aims it at the roof and takes a reading. “Is it reading for you?”

“I have a temperature of seventy-two Farenheit.”

“Perfect.” He pockets it as he watches a hand reach over the ledge of the roof. “Robin has arrived. I'm going to hand this over to him. Oh, is Jim there?”

“No?” Ed is quiet. “I assume he's at work.”

“I'll call him in a moment. When you're contacted again it will be Robin.”

“Understood. I'll be here.”

Bruce walks over and offers Robin a hand, which he takes gratefully, already beaming and excited. “I'm ready for my mission. What am I doing? Rescue? Reconnaissance?”

“The second one,” Bruce says, “although admittedly it could lead to the second.”

“This is so cool.” Richard bounces a little on the balls of his feet, keeping light and mobile. “What am I doing exactly?”

“My associate and I have devised a method to hopefully discover possible locations for Mr. Freeze and his wife Nora. This is top secret work. I need you to take this,” he hands over the thermometer, “and map the city's temperature on each building.”

“Okay,” he nods, flipping the device on. “Do I need To go inside? Or underground?”

“Stick with rooftops for now. We'll inquire further once we find possible locations. You'll be in contact with someone,” he pulls a communicator out of his pocket. “Put this in your ear. Tap once for the lab and twice for me.”

“Yes sir!” he exclaims. He puts the communicator in his ear and taps twice. “Hello?”

The echo makes Bruce chuckle. “ _ Once  _ for the lab, Richard. He'll refer to you as Robin.”

“Understood.” He taps once and the line clicks off in Bruce's ear. “Hello? This is Robin reporting.” He covers the mouthpiece. “This is so awesome.”

“Be careful. Don't engage anyone, and if a roof isn't safe don't go. Information only.”

He nods quickly and runs toward the next roof, leaping and pausing long enough to use the device, then he's off again. Bruce watches him for a minute, feeling a sense of pride. Then he remembers he hasn't cleared this yet and he swears, tapping three times to call Jim.

“Morning, Bruce,” he says tiredly. He might've just woken up.

“Jim, good morning.” He watches Richard as he reaches a fourth roof. “I'm recruiting Richard Grayson.”

“Bruce he's underage.”

“Just for information mapping. Ed and I might have an idea for finding Victor Fries. We require a more accurate temperature reading of the city.”

“Fine, alright. He's not engaging in any fights though.” Jim sighs. “Is there any way I can get into contact with him?”

“I suppose that's reasonable.” He looks again, but Richard is too far away to just shout over. “I'll give him the sequence to call you.”

Jim is quiet for a moment. “He's already working isn't he.”

“I may have neglected to call until now.”

“Better late than never,” Jim mutters, “just have him call me next if you can.”

“Will do.” Bruce hangs up and taps the line for Richard. “Are you making progress?”

“Yes sir! I got through ten roofs already.” He hears Richard skid to a stop on a roof. “Is something wrong?”

“No, but we're working together with the GCPD, and Commissioner Gordon wants to get acquainted with you if you're going to do these tasks for me. Tap three times to call him.”

“Okay, I can do that,” Richard agrees. “Do you always work together?”

“It's important to remember that in normal circumstances what we do is somewhat illegal. That means keeping an open communication with the GCPD. He just wants to establish contact with you.”

“I'll call right now.” Richard hangs up somewhat abruptly, and Bruce chuckles. He's eager, that's certain. Bruce begins making his way to the fire escape and down the stairs when his communicator rings, pinging once. “Hello?”

“Master Bruce, sorry to commandeer the channel from.Mr. Nygma for a moment, but you've gotten a call from Miss Thompkins.”

“Leslie Thompkins?” he confirms.

“The very same, sir.”

“What about?”

“She wishes to speak with you, and, hold on a moment,” he pauses and Bruce can hear him speaking with someone in the background, though he can't make out what they're saying. “Mr. Nygma has informed me that she's planning on doing Miss Kyle's prenatal care. I assume it's about that, sir.”

Bruce shoves his hood off his head and runs a hand through his hair. “But you aren't certain?”

“It was somewhat urgent regardless of topic. I suggest you pay her a quick visit while you have Mr. Nygma and Mr. Grayson working on this map, sir.”

“I'll do that,” he says. “Please send me her address, Alfred. I'll drive over.”

“Will do, Master B. I'll give you back to Mr. Nygma.”

Bruce finishes climbing down off the fire escape and climbs into his car. Ed speaks up as he starts the engine, “he's making excellent progress.”

“Robin? Good. I'm glad he's able to help. Anything unusual?”

“Not yet,” Ed says as he ticks away on the keyboard. “I'm working on an equation to take the change in air temperature into account. I doubt even Mr. Grayson can manage to take the temperature of every roof before ambient air temperature becomes a factor.”

“Doubtful,” Bruce says, then he hesitates, “you know his name?”

“I'm afraid he hasn't perfected the use of the communicator. I ah, overheard his conversation with Jim. Completely innocent, just an introduction, but you might want to tell him about putting people on hold.”

“I will, after I speak with Lee.” He begins driving to the suburbs. “She's doing Selina's prenatal care?”

“She's at least agreed to do the preliminary ultrasound. Tonight, in fact. She's working late at the hospital.”

_ It must be about that _ , he thinks. Going with Selina, maybe? He supposes he could spare an hour or two on a Saturday. "While I'm at Lee's I leave Richard under your guidance. Don't let him push himself too hard."

"Understood," Ed says. "Enjoy your visit. I can almost guarantee that it will go better than mine."

-

Bruce hasn't spoken with Leslie Thompkins in nearly a year, but it doesn't stop her from pulling him down into a hug the moment she opens the door. He chuckles lowly and smiles at her once she releases him. "It's good to see you again, Bruce. Sometimes I forget you're as tall as a tree now. I still imagine the little Bruce I met years ago."

"It's good to see you," Bruce tells her. She's always had this motherly, calming air about her, something Bruce has realized he's missed. "I was somewhat surprised when you asked to see me."

"I'm guessing you have an idea why I did," she says, and she holds the door open wider for Bruce to enter. A small dog runs over and begins barking up at Bruce, yipping excitedly and pawing at his legs. "Bosco, no. Sorry. Don't mind him."

Bruce leans down long enough to pat Bosco on the head once before straightening. "I don't mind dogs."

"Don't let him know that," she teases, and gestures to the couch, "go ahead and sit. Do you want something? Water? Coffee?"

"Coffee, thank you," Bruce says. "I was up somewhat early this morning."

"Always on the go," Lee comments as she walks through an archway into her kitchen. Bruce sits down and the moment he settles with a sigh the dog is up on his lap. "If he's bothering you just push him off."

Bruce imagines this is a common behavior when Lee has guests because she didn't  _ see  _ him jump up on the couch. He pets the dog anyway; there's a part of him that can't refuse an animal when it demands attention. "I don't mean to ignore any small talk but could we skip over catching up today? I've added a few too many things to my schedule today."

"Sure," Lee calls back. After another minute or two she appears with two mugs of coffee and hands one over to Bruce. "But I get to ask one thing. How are you doing, Bruce?"

He takes a drink of coffee while he formulates a response, "I'm alright. Busy. It feels like I'm always behind on paperwork."

"I'm sure a lot of people relate to that." She pets Bosco as he abandons Bruce's lap in favor of hers. "But I was hoping for how you feel about Selina."

"Ah," he nods. "The pregnancy. It's," he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, "complicated. Confusing, at times. I'm not sure what I should think about it, not when there's been no decisions made."

"It's a confusing time for everyone," she tells him calmly. "Having a baby changes your whole outlook."

"It's still theoretical. Selina hasn't decided if she wants to have a baby."

"What do  _ you  _ want, Bruce?"

He blinks a few times. "That's immaterial. What I want should have no bearing on Selina's decision."

Lee sits back, nodding to herself. She takes a moment to drink her coffee, looking out the large bay window at the early morning sun. "I understand where you're coming from, Bruce. You're trying to respect Selina's feelings and her right to choose, but you're looking at this the wrong way." She looks back at him, face stern but not accusing. "The two of you need to talk about this together. You're telling Selina that every decision is hers alone, that your opinion shouldn't matter, but Bruce, even if you disagree you need to  _ tell  _ her that."

"I don't want to pressure her into something she isn't ready for."

"I know, and I know you think you're doing that the right way." Her voice is soothing. She puts a hand on his arm and squeezes once, a grounding technique. He's appreciative. "But you should tell her how you feel, or at least that you're just as confused as she is. It will help her make a decision."

"I haven't sorted through my feelings yet. It feels counterproductive, to say we're both just confused."

"Maybe I can help," she says. "Because Bruce, I think you should come to the scan tonight. Ed Nygma isn't really the person I would choose as a birthing partner."

"He's not the person you remember, or, possibly he  _ is _ , just, not of recent memory."

"Not exactly the response I expected out of you, but alright," Lee says with a confused shake of her head. "Even if that's true, Bruce, you're still the father. Right now Selina is probably scared and uncertain, and you haven't shown her that you're ready or capable of taking care of a child. You can't just drop everything and leave the country for weeks at a time."

Right, of course, the lifestyle. Norway. Not his crime related hobbies. "You think I am not capable of change."

"I think you just haven't been told you  _ should _ , Bruce, if you want a child at least. They're one of the neediest, most demanding people you can ever know," she says all of this fondly, "but it's also very rewarding in its own ways. I know," she pauses, biting her bottom lip before she continues, "I know that, with your parents being killed, the idea of having a child might be terrifying for you. It's perfectly fine to admit you're not ready. Not everyone is, and not everyone  _ ever  _ becomes ready. But no matter what you decide, talk to her. Don't keep Selina in the dark on your feelings."

Bruce nods, feeling his eyes mist over a little. He blinks a few times and huffs out a breath. "You've made some excellent points. I'll talk to her. Today. I don't know if I have the time for the scan today, though."

Lee moves her hand from his arm; he hadn't noticed its continued presence until it moves away, the slight warmth seeping away. "Talking will help, Bruce. Trust me." She settles in a bit more comfortably. "Now, you're sure you can't stay and talk? A lot happens in a year."

Bruce looks down at his mug, now only half full of still warm coffee, and the dog moves back over to him, planting himself on Bruce's lap and shuffling about until he lies down, clearly intent on making Bruce his bed. He pets Bosco and looks up at Lee. "I suppose I could spare a few minutes."

-

"Has he completed the mapping?"

Ed looks up from the monitors, laughing, somewhat baffled, and gesturing to the screen. "You  _ do  _ realize he's mapping the entirety of Gotham, don't you?"

"I suppose it does take some time," Bruce says, pulling up a chair and looking over the map. "It's been normalized?"

"Nearly. Just implementing a few minor adjustments. I am felt but not seen, but I can carry you far away."

"The wind. Good. it's rather breezy today, actually."

"Ideally we should get a few day's worth of data, breezy, still, possibly raining, but I can get us a rough idea with the data from today." Ed taps the communicator once and says, "hello Robin. Making progress?"

Bruce pulls a communicator off the desk and sticks it in his ear, catching the end of Richard proclaiming, "feet are going to fall off."

"Don't overwork yourself Robin. You've already made excellent progress."

"Thank you sir!" Richard exclaims, and Ed chuckles under his breath. "I was just telling uh,  _ Enigma _ , about a quick break."

"Enigma?" Bruce mouths a question to Ed, and Ed shrugs, indifferent. "That's quite alright Robin. You've already completed nearly a fourth of the roofs, by my count."

"I forgot the city is so  _ big _ !" he gasps. "Do you do stuff like this all the time?"

"By myself, usually. Occasionally I seek help from Selina, er, Cat, but she's been busy."

"Holy buckets," he mutters. Ed sputters out a laugh into his hand, covering it up with some unconvincing coughing. In any case Richard doesn't seem to notice. "What time is it?"

"Nearly eleven." He'd been with Lee longer than he expected, but it left him feeling clearer, and a bit lighter. He should consider calling her every so often to help unclutter his thoughts. "You've been at this for three hours already."

"If he continues at a steady pace he'll be done around sundown, possibly a bit later, although Uptown is considerably more cluttered, building wise."

"We didn't factor in the skyscrapers either. I'll do those myself to keep Jim from having a coronary." He turns his attention back to Richard on the communicator. "Continue when you're able, but I'll do the main bulk of downtown myself. Don't climb any buildings higher than ten stories."

"Can do!" he says, already sounding like he's already caught his breath. "I'm on it!"

"Thank you," Bruce says, and he pulls the communicator out of his ear. "He's very enthusiastic."

"An admirable quality in a vigilante, I'd assume." He gives Bruce a knowing look. "If only he had a  _ twin  _ or something we could've already been half done by now."

"I'll keep my eyes peeled for any other teenage vigilantes while I'm out." He watches the words appear on the screen while Ed types, lulled by the ticking of the keyboard. "Is Selina here today?"

"Possibly, you'll have to ask Oswald or Alfred." Ed's focused on the screen, not bothering to turn towards Bruce while he talks. “We’re meeting later tonight when Lee is free at the hospital, if you have time to wait.”

"I'll ask one of them," he says, standing. Ed's clearly focused on his work, which Bruce appreciates. In any case, he's perfectly capable of finding Selina on his own. "Good luck."

"The cousin of chance. Good fortune's best mate. I am what everyone seeks, when unsure of their fate."

"Thank you," he says. He could use a little  _ luck _ , if he's honest with himself.

Bruce leaves Ed to his work and makes his way upstairs to the main floor. He finds Alfred in the kitchen, alone, making what looks like a meal for one. He nods to Bruce and says, “just making myself an early lunch. Did you want anything Master Bruce?”

“I’m fine. Lee gave me something before I left.”

“Miss Thompkins?” he asks, and Bruce nods. “Have a nice visit?”

“I did. It was illuminating.” He folds his hands on top of the table. “She’s performing Selina’s ultrasound tonight. Have you seen Selina?”

“I believe I saw her in the parlor, sir,” he says as he finishes making a salad. “Although that was earlier this morning. I believe Mr. Cobblepot had a task for her, but I don't know the particulars. She may have already left.”

“Thank you. Enjoy your lunch.” Bruce leaves the kitchen and makes his way towards the parlor, where he finds Selina sleeping on one of the couches. The second he steps on the hardwood she blinks her eyes open, snapping upright and getting her bearings before sighing, stretching out her arms and lounging once she’s finished. “Hello. We have something we should discuss.”

“Yeah? Figured that out all by yourself?”

"I deserve that," he says. "I've been unfair to you." He sits on the couch across from her and Selina cocks her head to one side, posture easing out of the stiff fake lounging position to an actual comfortable position. "I understand now that by not telling you my feelings on the matter I've increased your stress levels, and I'm sorry."

"I'm not stressed," she sighs when Bruce gives her a look. "Okay, fine,  _ maybe  _ I'm a little stressed out."

"And I take responsibility for that. If you don't mind I think we should talk now."

"Okay," Selina nods, "sure. I'm not going anywhere."

"I'm not sure how to start," Bruce admits. He wrings his hands together, focusing on the floor rather than looking at Selina. "Would you like to start?"

"Not really."

"That's fair." Bruce lets out a slow breath. "You're pregnant."

"Why is  _ everyone  _ stating the obvious?"

"Please, Selina," he coughs once, "I don't know how to say this, and I'm trying to collect my thoughts. I'm going to be honest with you, and I just want you to hear me out."

"Why does that sound like something I don't want to hear?"

"I suppose that's my fault. I don't have much experience with this. Or any, really, but I now know where I stand. I am," he pauses, "not opposed to having a baby."

Selina blinks. "Say again?"

"I've been thinking for the past couple weeks. The conclusion I've reached is that I would be pleased about having a child."

He watches Selina while she sits, motionless except for a few blinks, and the longer she goes without saying a word the more anxious he feels. Logically, the fear is irrational. She's processing the information after more than two weeks of nothing from Bruce, but there's a nagging, uncertain thought tugging at the back of his mind, alarms blaring in his ears.

"That's not what you wanted to hear," Bruce says.

Selina shakes her head, more of a clearing of her daze than a rejection. "How can you know that?"

"I don't know what you mean. I've thought about your pregnancy and concluded that I  _ do  _ want children." He huffs out a breath. "And it's fine if you don't. I don't want you to force yourself to do anything for my sake, but you wanted my opinion, so I'm telling you."

Selina leans forward and rubs her hands over her face. "So, what? You've been secretly pining for a family all this time? You didn't think to  _ say  _ anything?"

"I have a family," he says, "in a loose sense. Alfred's raised me and has been a source of guidance for years. And in a strange way Ed and Oswald feel like family to me."

"That's crazy," Selina laughs. “How?”

"It's hard to explain,” he shrugs. “Once, back when Oswald was still an active participant in crime, several condoms fell out of my utility belt when I was grabbing a smoke grenade," Bruce admits, and Selina bursts out laughing. "It was somewhat mortifying."

"How do you ever recover from something like that?"

"I don't think I did, honestly." Bruce shrugs. "But the way Oswald reacted, well, I don't  _ have  _ any uncles, but I think it feels similar to that. So, in a non traditional way, I do have a family. I haven't been actively pining for one. But in the more traditional sense, parents, a partner, a child, I suppose I want that too."

Selina's laughter stops abruptly with a weak cough. "Okay, well, that's  _ that _ , I guess."

"You don't have to let my feelings sway your decision."

Selina shrugs. "Yeah, well, I don't know."

Bruce runs his hands through his hair. "I thought this is what you wanted. I wasn't showing you that I'm willing to make changes to my lifestyle if needed. Now I am, but you're acting strange.”

"I know! I know, I just," Selina groans, "I don't know how you can be so calm about this. How are you not freaking out?"

"I'm actually quite terrified," he tells her. "Having a child, raising someone from infancy, the outcomes are unknown, the possibilities endless. It's like looking at the ocean. Vast, unending, uncertain."

"So you can look at that and somehow  _ still  _ want a kid?"

"Being terrified doesn't have to be a negative thing," he says. "There's an endless amount of possibilities, and I've accepted that I can't control every aspect. I know that, regardless of the circumstances, I am willing and able to raise a child."

“Okay.” She sighs. "I need to get going."

"Selina-"

"I'm not kidding, okay? Oswald wants me to recheck Ed's network, don't tell Ed, though. It's probably a dead end, and he'll get all worked up over nothing." Selina stands up and rubs her eyes. "And then I have a thing later tonight, so I'm kind of busy. I'll see you around."

"Selina," Bruce says before she leaves, and she stops in the doorway, "if you would like, I can make some time to come to your ultrasound tonight."

"Ed tell you about that?" she asks.

His forehead creases, confused, and he nods. "Yes, and Lee. I can make the time. I know my outwardly aloof attitude did little to help you, and I'm going to support you correctly from now on."

"No it's cool. You're doing shit for Freeze and I really need to get going. Have fun doing your project or whatever." She turns and walks out of the room, leaving Bruce in the parlor, dumbfounded. Once she's gone he lets his head fall back against the couch.

He thought talking was supposed to make him feel  _ better _ about the pregnancy.

-

“Has Selina acted strangely while in your company?” he asks Oswald. Ed was reluctant to tear himself away from his work, or possibly reluctant to talk about Selina in general. It was easier to let him be and seek advice elsewhere. Bruce found Oswald exiting one of the upstairs bedrooms, wrapped up in a thick robe and sleepwear, and he'd coursed him into talking by promising to make some coffee and sandwiches.

“I haven't been around her much, admittedly.” Oswald takes a bite out of a pickle spear and leans his head back, thinking. “Today when we spoke she was fine enough, if not a little  _ short  _ with me. I assumed it was none of my business. I've been trying that out recently, and I'm inclined to never ask anyone how they are ever again.”

Bruce laughs quietly. “Excluding Ed, I assume.”

“Everyone has an exception to a rule,” he agrees, drawing a finger around the lip of his mug. “I  _ suppose  _ I could weasel something out of Ed. He's around her more than I am,  _ and  _ he's become a self proclaimed  _ expert  _ on pregnancy, if that has any relation to her potential strangeness.”

“Thank you, but I'll wait and see if Selina says anything new after the ultrasound.” He stares down at the sandwich on his plate, but his appetite is almost non-existent. “I told her I want a child. She didn't react well.”

Oswald blinks at him, surprised. “Well, that could certainly explain a few things.”

“I don't think she's ever imagined herself having a child. I scared her, and now I don't know what I'm supposed to do next. Talking was supposed to help clarify things.” His thought processes feel muddy, like slogging through a thick sludge. “I think I made things worse instead.”

“As much as I'd love to help, what with my  _ vast _ , unending knowledge on the subject,” Oswald smirks, and Bruce smiles briefly, “I don't think  _ I'm _ the person to ask.”

“Your multitude of children gave you zero sage advice?”

“If by children you mean Zsasz then  _ maybe _ .” He shakes his head. “I’m afraid I'm out of my element.”

“I'm going to talk with Alfred once I know more and Selina might come to a decision after tonight. In the meantime I need to apologize, because I'm going to monopolize Ed for my project for most of the afternoon.”

“I'm sure I'll find a way to entertain myself,” he says, idly drawing Bruce's sandwich closer, and once Bruce nods he takes it without hesitation. “Have fun with the Boy Wonder and Ed. If you're in desperate need of some company later I'd  _ love  _ to avoid my paperwork for another hour.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to call attention to the addition of the tag 'self-inflicted injury' (not to be confused with self-harm, circumstances are different in context), as it happens in this chapter and next, and I don't want anyone blind sighted.

“May 20th, I am currently hiding inside a storage closet with Selina while we wait for Lee's signal,” he whispers.

“Do you really need to do this now?”

“I find a certain measure of calm from documenting my actions related to my work. So, yes.”

Selina leans against a shelf and crosses her arms. “We won't get caught. There's like, five people on this floor.”

He hadn't considered the possibility of being caught but he supposes hearing that does make him feel a little better about their current location. “I find hospitals stressful.”

“Who doesn't?” she mutters.

Ed frets over the button of his recorder. He's fairly certain the bubbling, near crippling anxiety he’s feeling isn't actually a normal human response to a hospital, but he doesn't comment. “You're _certain_ you wouldn't prefer Bruce over me?”

“I don't think I can concentrate if all he's going to do is coo the whole time.” There's a triplet of knocks on the door and Selina straightens. “Sounds like it's time.”

Ed holds the door open and follows Selina and Lee down the hall towards the ultrasound suite. His leg gives off a sympathetic ache as they pass the X-ray room, but he pushes those thoughts away. He's not in a hospital for his sake. It's for Selina, who spent the entire drive in complete silence until right before they parked, when she sniffed once, very quietly, and Ed pretended not to notice the way she wiped at her eyes.

There's a small alarm bell in his head going off, a precursor to a much louder, harder to ignore alarm that tells him to backpedal away the second he sees any sign of tears. He'll leave the emotional support and care in Lee's capable hands. Ed isn't very good at comforting others unless it's Oswald, who's always been very good at guiding Ed while simultaneously having a “moment”. He doubts Selina will be as forward if she has an emotional outburst.

“Once we're in the room we have to be quick,” Lee explains as she unlocks a door. “No time to linger.”

“Thank you for your help,” Ed says again. He's trying to appear grateful; he is, mostly because his plan hasn't blown up in his face, but also because Selina seems appreciative. A rare, fortuitous decision on his part, calling in Lee Thompkins for help.

“Bet you she's just waiting to corner you,” his shadow says, but Ed dismisses it with a small head shake. If Lee did want them cornered she'd already done that by having them hide in the supply closet.

“Alright, Selina you hop up on here,” Lee indicates the chair near the ultrasound station, “and I'll get the machine warming up.”

“Sounds like that could take awhile,” Selina says, scooting back so she's resting her head on the chair. The paper covering crinkles as she moves.

“I’m pretty sure the computer is nearly as old as you are. But it's reliable.” Lee takes out a tube from a sterile bag. “Lift up your shirt, perfect,” she says as she squirts a gel onto Selina's stomach.

“That is really cold,” she exclaims, squirming.

“It'll warm up in a minute.”

Ed's read through this procedure a few times, nothing more specific on the _performative_ end, per se, but he understands the concepts well enough. There's a gel, ultrasonic waves, a screen to display the image, and Lee, of course. This procedure relies heavily on the skill of the technician, or doctor in this case. Almost immediately the steady swoosh sound of the wand fills the small room and a blurry, black and white image appears.

“Okay, let's see,” Lee talks to herself. “Placenta looks good,” she mutters.

Ed wishes he could have his tablet right now so he could follow along more accurately. As much as he's learned he still can't exactly tell the difference between one blurry line and another. He finds a seat and settles back in the chair in the quiet, dark room, and his eyes start drooping almost immediately.

“Kinda risky letting your guard down,” _he_ whispers in Ed's ear, and Ed's head snaps up. Selina and Lee don't seem to notice his quick breathing, given their intense focus on the ultrasound images. Good.

“You're right around nine weeks,” Lee says. Ed assumes he didn't miss much while he nodded off if they're only this far. “And everything looks good. No warning signs.”

Or maybe he _did_ miss a fair amount.

“I don't know how you can see anything but fuzz on that screen,” Selina quips. She's more relaxed, at least, the quiet tension in the car is nowhere to be found.

“I'll point it out, here,” Lee says as she gestures to the screen, “this is a uterine wall, and right here is the baby. At this stage it's called a fetus.”

“Where?” Selina squints. “Do you mean that lima bean thing?”

Lee laughs, “yes, the 'lima bean’ thing. And if you hold still I may be able to find you the heartbeat.”

“Well crap,” Selina sighs. There's a softness in her expression Ed isn't used to seeing. “Taking over an awful lot of space for being such a tiny thing.”

“And there's still thirty weeks to go,” Lee tells her. She offers Selina a towel to wipe up the gel. “Everything looks fine, you're right on track.”

“One question answered,” she directs this towards Ed. “Where's the nearest bathroom? I've had to piss since we got here.”

“Right off the suite, by design,” Lee chuckles. “Just take a right once you're out in the hall.”

“Cool.” Selina hops off the chair and walks out of the room, calling back a quick thanks as she goes.

“I slept longer than I thought,” Ed comments.

“Only a few minutes,” Lee says. She's wiping down equipment and putting everything away. “Can you switch the chair paper for me?”

“Certainly.” Ed pulls on a pair of gloves from the box on the wall and slides the paper off. “I need to thank you again. I recognize the amount of risk you're placing on yourself by helping. High risk, little reward. And unfavorable investment, for you at least.”

“Sometimes helping people is risky, but I can't pick and choose who I decide to treat.”

“I think you can, actually. The hospital has an intern program for a reason.”

Lee laughs, “you sound like some of my colleagues.” She smiles. “I need to thank you too. I can't imagine why, but you being here seems to help Selina.”

“She asked me to,” he replies. He desperately wants something to do to keep his hands busy, but Lee hasn't directed him to aid in any other ways. “I'm assuming she concluded she didn't have the mental fortitude to go alone.” Although she openly admitted to _not_ wanting Bruce to come along.

“There's a strength in that too, you know. It's about recognizing when you're at your limit and seeking help.” Lee turns off the monitor and faces Ed fully. There's a kindness in her expression, one most likely meant for Selina. “How are you doing, Ed?”

It's the first time Lee's shown concern for his well-being in a decade, and it catches him off guard. He blinks down at the freshly covered chair and fiddles with the fingers of his nitrile gloves. “Are you sure you meant to ask me that?”

“You got Jim Gordon to vouch for you. That means something whether you realize it or not.” Lee crosses her arms. “Why did he vouch for you? What did you do to get him in your corner?”

Ed shrugs one shoulder and finally pulls off his gloves with a satisfying snap. He always did prefer nitrile over latex. He'd faked a latex allergy so he could have his own supply in his grad student lab.

“Ed,” Lee snaps him out of his memories, “are you going to answer me?”

“I've been solving cases for the GCPD. Several, in fact.” He bites the corner of his lip and pulls out his wallet, producing a simple black business card with an eye on the back, his trademark hidden in the pupil. “Enigma Investigative Services.” He hands the card over to Lee. She flips it over a few times and he clears his throat. “Nashton is, was, my original last name, before I came here to Gotham.”

“You're a detective?” she raises one eyebrow, questioning the card, certainly questioning the validity of his claim. “You're _helping_ the police?”

“I did before. I don't see how it's such a shock.”

“It isn't, not really, I just,” she gestures helplessly to him, “I'm used to the suit, the overly complicated riddles, the, the-”

“Riddler,” he fills in.

“ _Yes_ , the Riddler.” She hums to herself softly. “I _did_ notice the drop in Riddler crimes, but I assumed you'd been caught or you got yourself killed. God that sounds horrible when I say it out loud.”

“It's not the most outlandish assumption.” There were plenty of nights where Ed found himself genuinely fearing for his life, freedom related or literal. “Most people wouldn't hesitate to _rejoice_ that outcome.”

“You've done a lot of bad things to this city and to its citizens,” Lee agrees, “but like it or not you're a citizen too. And you _do_ sound better, Ed. I can't believe I'm saying this but it feels like old times.”

“I'm not a fan of the person I was.” Shadow Ed is snickering, probably readying a comment about sniveling, whiny Ed Nygma of the GCPD and his desperate attempts to be liked.

“I don't mean you're the person you were. You aren't the same person from the GCPD, and that's not a bad thing. I just mean I'm not afraid of you,” Lee says. “Selina's been gone awhile. I think the two of you should get going before night shift makes any rounds.”

Ed nods, a bit thunderstruck, and he exits the ultrasound suite. He turns right as Lee instructed Selina and walks down to the small single stall, which he finds empty. The lights of the hall are still on, but none of the room lights are, and Ed continues down for the right until he finds a small room with a light on, Selina lounging on a couch with her phone to her ear.

“-looking fine.” She twirls a strand of hair and glares at Ed when he enters, but she doesn't shoo him away. “Yeah. It doesn't look like anything unless you're part cashew. Yeah, that's what I thought.” She sits up. “Don't sweat it. No, nerd boy fell asleep in the room.” She sticks her tongue out at Ed, then winks. “Lee's cool, I guess. No, she didn't say anything. If you really want to just donate or whatever. I don't think she's taking any money. Look Ed found me so I think I need to get going. Yeah. See you.” She hangs up and sighs. “What?”

“You are correct. We should get going.”

“Yeah, okay,” Selina stretches out her back and rubs her temples. “I called Bruce.”

“I assumed.” Ed gestures to the door and they exit out into the hall. “It sounded amicable.”

“Yeah, he's bouncing off the walls,” Selina whispers. The two of them move quietly through the hall until they reach the back stairwell where Lee first let them inside. “I told him I'm not terminating.”

“Tonight was helpful for making your decision?”

“Yeah,” Selina peeks down the stairs to the landing below them, “so now he’s gonna be a daddy.”

“And you a mother,” Ed comments.

“Didn't say that,” Selina says.

Ed frowns. “But you said you're keeping it.”

“I said I'm not terminating.”

“Those are objectively the same thing.”

“You'd think that,” Selina drawls. “Can we do this later? I think I can hear someone.”

Impossible unless Selina's developed increased hearing sensitivity. It's probably a lie, or a reflection, a nicer way of saying “I don't want to discuss this with you” and Ed focuses on moving down the stairs quietly to avoid alerting anyone loitering near the doors.

Ed's car is right where he left it, and without a single officer inspecting the misplaced vehicle. They get over to it and inside without incident, and Ed allows the silence to linger until Selina speaks up. “Do you ever want something you can't have?”

“Yes,” he says immediately. “Oswald.”

“Am I missing something? Because in case you forgot you _married_ the guy.” Selina groans. “You're going to tell me some cheesy story about your first date or something aren't you.”

“I can. Our past was not always amicable,” Ed begins, “we were enemies, as you know. Feuding. The mere sight of one another could have set either of us off. Lives were lost, pawns thrown at one another while we plotted against one another.”

“Sounds like a kinky first date.”

“We nearly killed one another.”

“So what? You saw your differences? Had a pleasant little chat over breakfast? Threw is all out the window in the name of love?”

“We grew tired.” Ed bites his lip. “As it turns out, waging a war against someone is much more exhausting than just accepting the inevitable. We called a truce, but things weren't the same. Things were awkward, forced politeness and uncomfortable small talk.” He glances over, noting Selina's mild interest. “Until one day it wasn't. It was incredibly slow, but eventually we were able to reach the point we’re at now.”

“Gross pervy lovebirds.”

“I suppose that's one way to put it. Essentially, at one point I did in fact want something I couldn't have, but after enough time passed that changed. Sometimes wanting something you can't have just means you're wanting it too early.”

Selina drums her fingers on the passenger side door. “Didn't expect that story to have an actual moral at the end.”

“What is it you can't have?”

“A family?” She clears her throat. “Bruce can sit there, and he can just _see_ it, you know? He can see himself, and a baby, and it just _works_ somehow all in his head. Whenever I try to picture it,” she sighs, “I just see my mother. That didn't work out so great.” Ed glances over and watches Selina place a hand on her stomach. “I can't picture it. I've _tried_ , really hard, but it never ends up with me there, just Bruce and a baby.”

“When you said they weren't the same, you meant you're leaving,” Ed tells her. Selina nibbles at her bottom lip. “You're not raising a child with him.”

“I don't think I can. If I do, it's just going to screw the kid up more when I bail.”

 _When,_ not if. Ed files that distinction away for later. “You don't have to decide immediately.”

“We're going to talk more in person, now that it's actually going to be a thing.”

While his and Oswald's relationship's near demise was violent and deadly, this one looks much calmer, a quiet resignation of differences. Ed thinks he prefers the firefight over this.

“I saw Ivy today,” Selina says after a few blocks of silence. “She's okay. It's not that sunny but she doesn't have a lot of options.”

“Alright.” He's fairly certain Selina just wants to talk, and if that's the case he can listen.

“She's using her plants to monitor for Strange, but I asked if she could keep an eye out for Barbara too.”

“Oh!” Ed smiles. “Thank you. It isn't much, but it's not grid silence. I appreciate the help.”

“Figured I should do something nice for you,” Selina says. She doesn't explain why.

-

“May 21st, Selina is bringing me to Ivy,” Ed says quickly into his recorder before leaving it on a nearby desk.

“Why are you using a _boat_ exactly?” Oswald asks while watching Ed put on his life jacket and a warm hat. It still gets chilly on the bay.

“Ivy's hideout is on Arkham island. The easiest point of access excluding the surface entrance is a cave on the cliff face. It's merely a precaution.”

“Are you going to claim you've been hiding _spelunking_ training from me for a decade?”

“No, but I _will_ assure you that Ivy's created a vine ladder along the cliff for our use.” He smiles at Oswald and kisses his forehead, hands grasping his shoulders tight. “I'll be careful.”

“I know, because I am coming with you,” Oswald says, releasing himself from Ed's grip and diving through the supply cabinet until he finds a suitable life jacket. “The _last_ time you went alone anywhere, and by alone I mean without _me_ , Barbara Keane attacked you in a _library._ I'm going to defend you with my life if necessary but I won't sit back and watch you become a damsel in distress while I lounge in the _bath_.”

“Selina's coming too,” Ed explains as he helps Oswald with his jacket, using it as an excuse to pull him in for another forehead kiss, “because Ivy isn't expecting us. She's a bit on _edge_.”

“If that is supposed to be a pun I'm going to push you overboard.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.” Ed smiles. “This feels like old times.”

“This feels like we're doing something stupid for the sake of spiting someone who's wronged us, so yes, I have to agree. Just like old times.”

-

Out of any of them Oswald is by far the smoothest boat captain, navigating the choppy waters of Gotham's bay with little difficulty. He looks very pleased with himself as he brings the boat around Arkham island, making a face at the high walls of the asylum as he pulls around to the cliff side with Ivy's hideout. As he slows the boat to a stop, telling Selina to drop anchor, he looks up at the vine ladder and then to Ed with a clearly unamused expression.

“You can't be serious.”

“Ivy is the closest thing we have to a spy network in Gotham to date. I need to speak with her directly.”

“Well you can have fun climbing up there,” Oswald says, sneering up at the vines. “If she pushes you off protect your head. I'd hate to see such a brilliant mind go to waste over _a plant-based spy network._ ”

“Let me signal her first,” Selina says. She moves to the side of the boat closest to Ivy's vines and tugs one in a specific rhythm. One two-a three four. The vine moves, but not maliciously, and Selina presents the result to Ed. “She's all ears.”

“Am I climbing first or second?”

“Oh I'm not going up there.”

“What?” Ed looks back up at the vines. “She only sees _you_ or Richard.”

“And I signalled her. Look, I'd love to, but I'm kind of pregnant?” she's using an inflection to make fun of him he just can't quite figure out how, “pretty sure I shouldn't be climbing things like that.”

Ah, there it is. She just doesn't _want_ to. “We both know that isn't _necessary_ true.”

“I _could_ call Lee and see what she thinks?”

“I saw you on the roof _two days ago_ ,” Oswald snaps. Selina shrugs. “Ed you can't be seriously considering going _alone._ ”

He almost tells Oswald he could join him, but they both know he really _can't._ It's a miracle Ed can get up there, and he's not actually sure he'll be able to get back down without Ivy's aid. But this is important. He needs to reestablish his network in the city by any means necessary, and if that includes climbing up to Ivy's hideout then so be it, he'll just have to suck it up and climb.

“It’s three stories at most,” Ed says, trying to be encouraging, but Oswald just gapes at him. “I’ve climbed higher.”

“Recently!?”

 _Yes_ , he thinks, _if Jim’s fire escape counts._ “I’ll be fine.”

“Well don’t let my petty concerns stop you,” Oswald huffs, sitting on one of the boat seats and crossing his arms. “Go on. I don’t want to be out here all day.”

Ed glances at Selina, but she’s ignoring them, used to their bickering after so long. He kneels on his good leg so he’s closer to eye level with Oswald while he’s sitting. “If we knew what Barbara was up to I wouldn’t be doing this, but we have _nothing_.” Oswald’s scowl softens. “Ivy might be the only chance we have to establish surveillance throughout Gotham.”

“If you fall I won’t forgive you.”

“Understood.” Ed stands and straightens his jacket. He opted to wear somewhat comfortable clothing today. A fortuitous decision, because he’d hate to have to attempt to scale the wall in a three piece suit. “I should get up there.”

Ivy’s vines are thick, but they’re also living, connected to her in an intimate, symbiotic way, and that means they continuously move. Not a lot, not enough to dislodge Ed at any time, but enough to slow his progress towards the mouth of the cave. The thickest vines are similar to the diameter of his wrist, the thinnest are mere wispy tendrils, tickling his hands as he moves.

His leg begins aching two thirds of the way up, but he can’t stop now. There’s no abort method in place to get him down safely if he gives in, so he keeps going, keeps pushing through the discomfort, and he laughs with relief when he reaches up and his hand comes into contact with a narrow ledge about two feet below the true mouth of the cave.

Once he’s in the mouth he leans against the jagged rocks, taking deep, heaving breaths and wiping the sweat from his brow. He regrets wearing a hat; sweat is dripping down the nape of his neck and collecting at the collar of his fleece jacket, making him feel sticky and unwashed.

“Ivy?” he calls out into the space, following shifting vines and faint sunlight filtering in through a few well placed holes in the rock face. “Ivy it’s Ed Nygma. Selina signalled you, down there,” he points even though she’s not around. He’s just thankful there aren’t any reflective surfaces.

“As if that stopped me before,” he hears a whisper, a laugh, and Ed huffs, blinking fast as he glances around the cave.

“You aren’t Selina,” Ivy says, peering around a corner of a cave.

“Yes, I believe I covered that when I announced myself,” Ed says. "I believe you can help me out with something."

"What's in it for me?"

"Ah, well," Ed shrugs. "I'm sure we can work out something once you know my request." He straightens out his clothes and claps his hands together. "It's come to my attention that you're monitoring the island for Strange and Barbara Keane. I propose, if possible, that you try to monitor more of Gotham. Is that something you're interested in doing for myself?"

"Can't," Ivy says with a shrug.

"Well that's not exactly the response I expected," Ed mutters. "Why?"

"Do you see sunlight in here?" Ivy asks, pointing up at the few holes in the ceiling and walls. "You're lucky I can reach everything on the island."

"I suppose that's reasonable," Ed says. "How many lumins would you require to reach the city proper?"

"How many what?"

"Never mind." Ed smiles. "Ivy how well do your plants do when supplemented with photosynthetic lighting rather than sunlight?"

"You mean like a greenhouse? Out here?" She looks left and right, confused. "This is a cave."

Ed chuckles to himself. "Ivy, why don't you leave the blueprinting to me, and _when_ I'm able to get you more light will you agree to spread your plants to the main city?"

-

“May 22nd, I am, Oswald please don’t touch those.”

“These are your notes, I assume?” Oswald gestures to the papers and notebooks strewn about on the dining table at Wayne Manor. “What are you doing with them?”

“Sorting, digitizing,” Ed makes a this and that motion with his hands, “They’re several months old, and it’s difficult to sort through them when they aren’t in a digital form.”

“I’d just throw them out,” Oswald says, flipping a few pages without bothering to focus on any of them. “Or make someone else type them. We finally have the Manor to ourselves and you’re going to spend that time _sorting_?”

“It’s relaxing, and I’ve been meaning to do it for nearly a month,” Ed says. “You’re welcome to keep me company.”

“Well, I suppose if you’re not going to change your mind we could multitask and go over a few notes the graphic designer gave me regarding your riddles.”

“Does she need more?” Ed looks up from his papers. He’s been thinking about a few seahorse related riddles recently.

“That’s one way you could put it,” Oswald hazards. His eyebrows crinkle and he opens his mouth a few times, starting to speak but nothing comes out until he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Now, let me first tell you that I, personally, adored them. The riddles were _delightful_ , which I will never admit to anyone else but you. But the designer brings up a valid point when she said you might’ve strayed a bit far from our target audience, which if you may have forgotten is, in fact, children.”

Ed straightens and licks his lips, looking down at his papers and grimacing. “She didn’t like the piranha fact, did she.”

“It was factual, but, no, she didn’t think children should really understand what occasional _cannibalism_ is just yet.”

Ed frowns and crosses his arms. “So, she’s rejected them.”

“Not _all_ of them. What’s always dressed to the nines even when wet? Delightful. Personal favorite of mine.” Ed smiles at Oswald when he gestures to himself. “I have a feeling you wrote that for me.”

“Possibly.” He grins.

“Maybe someday we’ll do some sort of _gala_ at the aquarium, and we can drag out the more ‘adult’ facts you used.” Oswald looks through some of Ed’s papers again. “So just whip up some more child friendly ones for now and we’ll bring up the others another time.”

“I will,” Ed says. Writing more riddles should take no time at all, but for now he’s going to finish up his notes.

“Do you write down every thought you have?” Oswald asks as he holds up a notebook. Not that it’s a _bad_ thing, but I think-”

Ed’s phone begins ringing and he answers it quickly, ducking away a bit so he can hear over Oswald’s chatter. “Hello?”

“Hey book boy,” Barbara drawls, laughing when Ed sputters quietly. He glances over to Oswald, but he’s still focused on whatever he found in Ed’s notes. “That was a nasty trick you pulled at the library. Aren’t you just full of surprises?”

“Why are you calling me?” Ed whispers. He can hear Oswald saying something about a ‘wet bar’ at the aquarium and he shakes his head, he needs to focus.

“Oh what’s the matter Eddie? Can’t a girl call to catch up?” She laughs. “I guess you got me, though, honey. I have a little message for you.”

Ed glances out the windows, searching the grounds of Wayne Manor, but there’s no sign of Barbara or any of her crew. It almost looks peaceful, seeing the bright, sunny day through the window behind Oswald. He steels himself and licks his lips. Better to figure out what the hell she wants now and hope he can handle this quietly. “What do you want?”

“ _The voice of parents is the voice of gods, for to their children they are heaven's lieutenants_ ,” Barbara says, and Ed winces once, a small ringing in his ear, and then it’s gone, and he blinks. “See you soon Eddie baby.”

She hangs up first, and Ed moves his phone away from his ear. He feels distinctly _off_ in a vague, unknown way. Ed turns to Oswald, watching him talk about _something,_ but the words aren’t reaching his ears.

_-his glasses broken on the ground, tears on his face, a bruise-_

He blinks and moves closer. “What were you saying?”

“Hm?” Oswald blinks. “Were you not listening?”

“I got a phone call,” Ed says. “Apologies.”

“Well, I’m just _gushing_ , I suppose,” Oswald preens. “What with me having a very successful construction project underway.”

_-hands, shaking, but tight, firm, a fear in her eyes-_

Ed blinks fast, hearing only a few words as Oswald gushes about, “the tile is a bit _more_ but of course I’m making a respectable aquarium not some-”

_-going to prison where they will do horrible things to you. Things that you deserve-_

Ed plants his hands on the counter and rasps, “Oswald.”

_-shock, a pale, distressed face, sinking fast-_

“I think we should start working with actual, what do you call them? Fish scientists?”

“Marine Biologists,” Ed says, grimacing, “Oswald.”

“Right, of course. You know-”

“Oh we’re going to have some fun now,” his shadow says, behind him, and Ed turns, and gasps. No mirror, no window, he’s just _there_. “Long time no see.”

“Leave,” Ed gasps, blinking, trying to will his shadow self away, but closing his eyes just makes the flood of memories _worse_.

“What?”

“You need to leave,” Ed grits his teeth, glaring at his other self, “right now.”

“What are you talking about?” Oswald stands. “Ed, you’re very tense, what’s-”

_-fingers shaking around the handle of a pistol, pulling the trigger-_

“Leave!” Ed closes his eyes. “Leave the Manor, get, get someone. Go. Please.”

“Wh-what do I say, do I-” Oswald’s hand comes close and Ed flinches, squeezing his eyes shut again, only to open them when all he sees is torrents of rain and blood in the water.

“Go!”

“Oh-okay, yes,” Oswald holds out a hand and Ed deposits a set of keys into his hands, then he covers his eyes, shoving his glasses up and grinding his teeth together, listening to the sound of Oswald’s feet slapping against the floor until he hears a door slam. His glasses fall off his forehead and land unevenly on his nose.

“Interesting tactic, getting yourself all alone with little me,” his shadow laughs. “Babs was right to call him your better half.”

“I’m protecting him,” Ed says. He’s glowering at his shadow, breathing heavily through his nose. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m exactly where I _should_ be.” Shadow Ed smiles at him, tipping his purple and green hat. “Ready to have a little fun Eddie?”

Ed closes his eyes, scanning his memories, thoughts of Kristen and Isabella and Oswald, over and over again in an unending cascade, faster and faster, all in blinding technicolor. He snorts once, a harsh, barking laugh. It needs to stop, _he_ can make it- “Oh,” Ed chuckles, “I see now.”

His shadow shakes his head, bemused. “You’ve always been an odd one,” he says, pointing. “But now you’re making _less_ sense.”

“She’s working for _Strange_ ,” Ed laughs. “Oh, I should have seen that coming.” He presses his lips together to hold in another laugh. “It was a _phrase_ ,” Ed explains, mostly to himself. He can feel his eyes watering as the memories slam into him again, but it’s _artificial_ sadness, and that’s the key. “And you, oh,” he can’t stop laughing, “you’re _not real_.”

“I think you tried that argument before,” he says, waving a hand, “but I guess whatever ‘works’ for you.”

“He’s made a _mistake_ ,” Ed says. He kicks off his shoes and socks, then undoes his belt. “A costly mistake.”

“Woah, okay, you’re taking things in an interesting direction. It’s _my_ job to humiliate you, alright? So why don’t you just leave your pants on and we'll stick with my plan.”

Ed moves his pants down far enough to pull off his knee brace, tossing it aside, and he pulls them back up, leaning over and rushing to get the brace off his ankle. “He’s neglected to remember a key fact I learned that day,” he tells the shadow, before stomping his right foot, _hard_ , and gasping as a peel of pain shoots up his leg. The shadow stutters, fades in and out of focus, and he says, in a rush, “pain overrides his conditioning.”

“Woah, let’s slow down a minute,” Shadow Ed laughs incredulously, shocked and flickering when Ed kicks his leg against the counter and groans.

“Not enough,” Ed mumbles. He turns and runs for the stairs, relishing every buckle and stabbing pain in his leg, tearing up the stairs to the guest room and past a bathroom, where he hears a cry of outrage.

“What are you doing!?” his shadow calls from the bathroom mirror. Ed continues down the hall and into the bedroom, grabbing a thick, heavy book from a small desk and turning towards the dresser mirror. His shadow self is there, gaping at him, trapped in the reflective surface rather than standing beside Ed. “Let’s not get hasty. You know, you’re looking pretty damn _crazy_ right about now.”

“You are a manifestation of myself, reminding me about the parts of me I dislike,” Ed tells the shadow, and he holds the book in both hands, raising it up, “and I don’t have to listen to a thing you say. It's funny that you're so confident when you're only made of insecurities. Ironic.”

“Okay, let’s just step back a minute and think this through. You’re a smart guy, I’ll give you that one. See? I can play nice. Let’s work together. You _know_ you were always better when I was around.”

“Incorrect,” Ed says, and he brings the book down on his knee, slamming it against the damaged, sensitive nerves, and falling onto his good side with a gasp as pain temporarily blinds him. He coughs a few times, bile rising, but he swallows down the feeling, pushing himself up to his hands and knees and glancing up at the mirror, which is now empty, and the room quiet.

He feels giddy, smiling, and he laughs, sighing in relief because he’s _gone_ , Ed won, and he’s, he’s, he’s going to be sick. Ed scrambles forward and grabs a small waste bin from against the wall and heaves into it, emptying his stomach and gasping for air, then he feels faint, his head like lead, and he falls onto his side as he passes out cold.

-

Ed blinks up at a cream colored, tiled ceiling and sighs quietly. It’s blurry, his glasses are missing, and his leg is _killing_ right now, but the room is quiet and warm, as are his thoughts. He turns to his right and sees the blurry outline of a door, and his IV line, and to his left he sees the blurry outline of a person sitting in a chair.

“Oswald?” he asks, rasping, and he coughs a few times. Blurry Oswald topples the chair as he gets up and walks over, coming into focus and sliding Ed’s glasses onto his face. “Is this the Manor?”

“Gotham General,” Oswald tells him. Ed feels a sluggish panic rise but it never forms past a vague unsettled feeling. “I tried to leave like you said, but I can’t drive your damn car,” Oswald bites his lip. “I went back inside and I found you,” he gulps, “upstairs, and, and you were unconscious.” He covers his face for a moment and breathes, regaining his composure. “What did you do to yourself?”

 _I fixed myself_ , he thinks, but in context that would sound distressing. “Can I get some water?”

“Right, yes,” Oswald brings a glass in front of Ed and offers him a straw. Ed takes a few small drinks and sighs with relief when it calms his scratchy throat. “What _happened_ , Ed?”

“Barbara called me,” he says.

“Barbara, of course,” Oswald shakes his head, muttering as he rights his chair and sits beside Ed’s hospital bed. “But what did you _do to yourself_ , Ed?”

He licks his lips. “She’s working for Strange,” he says. “Or perhaps she’s under his control. I’m not certain, but she said, Oswald there are key phrases Strange uses to control people.”

“I don’t see how this could be important right now. What did you _do_ Ed? Your leg, well it’s _mangled_ , to put it nicely. Your tendon nearly _tore_ . They considered _surgery_.”

“Let me explain, please,” Ed says tiredly. He can tell the IV is morphine, or some other painkiller, but it’s only making him groggy and not actually helping all that much. “Strange has two phrases I know of, one is the control phrase, unique to each individual. Sensible, really, and necessary. Resetting everyone’s control with the same phrase is impractical. But he has another.” He holds out a hand when Oswald looks distressed, and Oswald latches onto him. “It’s, I don’t know how to describe it fully. A flood, or a cascade. I’m only guessing, but I _think_ it’s the same phrase, because having a different one for everyone is impractical in this instance. It,” he squeezes Oswald’s hand, “forces you to remember things. Painful memories, in an attempt to break down more willful subjects.”

Oswald is quiet, running his thumbs over Ed’s knuckles and pressing his lips to his fingers. “And hurting yourself? What purpose did that serve?”

“Physical shock breaks the conditioning, if you're quick,” he reminds Oswald. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to pass out. I may have gotten a bit overzealous.”

“I hate him,” Oswald says. His voice is even and calm, but there’s an ire just under the surface, boiling rage just barely contained by Oswald’s physical form. “No one has been more, more _infuriating_ , more _damaging_ than that, that-” Oswald takes a breath, and he adds quietly, “you need to find him, Ed. Because once you do, I am going to kill him. Because I am not letting him lay another hand on you ever again, metaphorically or otherwise.”

“I’ll be alright, Oswald, but thank you,” Ed says, bringing Oswald’s hands closer so they’re resting on his chest. Now that Ed knows the phrases he holds all the cards, at least the ones that truly matter. “When can I leave?”

Oswald takes a breath and sighs. “Once the swelling goes down. And once someone gets here with your braces and cane. I,” Oswald sighs, “ _neglected_ to grab them, in my haste.”

“Understandable.”

“It should be soon.” Oswald closes his eyes. “I want it to be, at least. We need to get out of here as soon as possible if we're going to avoid any questions.”

There’s a quiet knock shortly after, and Ed expects a doctor or nurse, but an officer walks in, and his vague panic skyrockets to a blaring, real fear, and Oswald’s hands clench tightly around his. Behind him is Lee, rolling her eyes once she’s in front of the officer. “Is the morphine doing enough for your pain, Ed?”

“Lee,” Ed whispers, “there’s an officer behind you.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I couldn’t exactly keep a booked room a secret.” She gives Oswald a wary look, and another, longer look at their interlocked hands, and she glosses over any questions she might have. Lee grabs Ed’s other wrist and touches two fingers to his pulse point. Then she whispers, “listen, he’s going to tell the two of you that you’re going to Arkham once Ed’s released. He’s going to try to make himself sound big and tough, but I already called Jim. He’s on his way. Just sit tight and claim your leg is still bothering you.”

Ed nods, and Lee stands up. “I’m going to get something stronger for your pain and the swelling. Officer Greene if you could leave the room so I can treat my patient I need to check on his leg.”

“These two are wanted men, ma'am,” he says, crossing his arms and looking intimidating.

“Doctor,” she corrects him, and she flips back the covers, revealing the fact that, oh, well it seems Ed isn’t wearing anything but a hospital gown, that’s understandable, and the officer turns around hastily and leaves when Lee looks at him with one eyebrow raised. “Okay, I can pretend I have to treat you for as long as possible but I think he’ll get suspicious eventually.”

“What do you expect Jim to _do_ , exactly?” Oswald asks. “Sneak us out of here?”

“I don’t know why _you’re_ here, Mr. Cobblepot,” Lee says, eyeing Oswald's hands over Ed's again. Then she sighs, “but you don’t have to explain, just don’t do anything _rash_ , alright? Have a little faith.”

Lee busies herself with Ed’s leg, or does a convincing job of looking busy, examining the swelling around his knee and changing out his IV when a nurse brings in something different than the morphine. Sometimes he forgets how kind Lee is until he watches as she helps him and Oswald hide from the police in plain sight. She’s also either ignoring his rapid heart rate and breathing or fully aware and letting Ed keep quiet about it for the sake of his dwindling hope that he and Oswald will get out of here without a firefight breaking out.

The silence is uncomfortable after Lee runs out of ways to look busy. She puts the blankets back in order and checks Ed’s pulse one last time, and right before she leaves the room she slips a card out of her lab coat pocket, slipping it under Ed’s right hand and leaving without another word.

“What is it?” Oswald asks.

“Her card,” Ed says. He hands it over to Oswald. “Could you hold this?”

Oswald just barely gets it into his wallet before the young officer steps back into the room, standing near the door and watching Ed and Oswald with a sour expression on his face. Ed closes his eyes, feigning discomfort, although this new medication is doing a much better job at relieving his pain. He lets Oswald fiddle with his left hand in silence while he presumably glowers at Officer Greene. And they wait.

“Hope you didn’t waste too much time standing around here,” Jim says the second he enters the room, and Ed sighs with relief. He watches Jim and nods back when Jim waves to them. “These two aren’t going anywhere.”

“Commissioner Gordon, it’s good to see you again.” Greene says brightly. They’re acquainted, by the sound of things. “They’re both wanted criminals. I’m here to apprehend them once The Riddler is released.”

Oswald snorts, possibly at the mention of apprehension, as if they planned on _running_ , or maybe the mention of Ed’s old persona.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Jim says, pulling something out of his pocket, “but what it looks like to the city is an officer, without his captain’s orders, bothering these two citizens while one of them is recovering in the hospital.” He hands two pieces of paper to Greene and points to the top of one of them. “These are exoneration papers, signed by the mayor. They're not wanted men, and you should probably get back to the GCPD for your shift. Wouldn't want your boss getting angry with you.”

“Are they threatening you?” Greene asks, pulling Jim aside while Oswald and Ed laugh quietly, giddy. Ed looks at Oswald, beaming, and he wipes a tear as it slips down Oswald’s face, trailing just a tiny bit of his makeup down his cheek.

“You’ll figure it out someday,” Jim says, clapping him on the shoulder. “You should get going.”

Jim maintains this cheeky smile and cocky stance until Greene leaves, shoving the papers at Jim’s general person, then he slumps and rubs his eyes, groaning as he moves over to the bed. “Here. These got finalized last week.” He drops the papers onto Ed’s lap. “Time for me to resign. It was a pretty good run. Six, seven months? That's probably enough for one lifetime.”

“Thank you,” Oswald says. Ed can almost _feel_ Oswald’s desire to say something sassy about Jim’s melodramatic episode, but even Oswald knows when to be grateful, at least for a moment. “I’m _sure_ they’ll let this one slide considering the city’s history with Commissioners and questionable practices.”

“At least you’re not _actually_ threatening me. Small miracles.” He shakes his head. “But anyway, try to stay out of the hospitals in the future, okay? I can only worry about so many people at a time.”

“It’s not in my five year plan,” Ed says. The medication is making him feel drowsy, and coupled with the receding panic he’s having trouble keeping his eyes open. Oswald takes his glasses off and Ed grunts, mildly confused, until his eyes slip shut and he has trouble opening them again.

“Call me if anyone gives you trouble,” Jim tells one of them, hopefully Oswald. He'll remember better than Ed. Jim's phone starts ringing, and he picks up quickly, pausing while someone talks to him. “Shit,” he mutters, “I'll be right there.” He turns back to Ed and Oswald. “Look, Bruce might’ve found Freeze. I’m going to head over and provide backup. You two just take it easy.”

Ed nods, and if Jim says anything more before he leaves Ed doesn’t hear it before falling asleep.


	13. Chapter 13

_ May 21st, Wayne Manor. Midnight. _

Bruce hangs up his phone and sits back in his armchair, sipping at a glass of water and looking outside at the quiet night. He should try to get some sleep. Realistically he should also stay awake until Selina gets to the Manor so they can talk, if she's not too tired of course.

He's going to be a father.

He looks over to the portrait above the fireplace and says, “you're going to be grandparents. I wish you could meet in person but I'll do my best to give your memory justice.”

“Talking to the portrait again Master B?” Alfred asks as he walks in, wearing a robe and holding a cup of something steaming hot. Coffee, probably, based on the scent.

“Selina has opted to not terminate,” he says.

Alfred nods, “alright,” he says quietly as he eases into a nearby chair, “so it's decided then.”

“If you have any advice I'll take it.”

“You're going to have to make some lifestyle changes, sir. Some are easier than others, since they're fabricated nonsense to keep that aloof, party lifestyle alive and well.”

“I don't think Wayne Enterprises will mind if I settled down a bit,” Bruce agrees. “Although it does pose a whole new set of reasons to not show up for work.”

Alfred sighs fondly, “where did you get such an abysmal work ethic lately?”

“Poor parenting,” he teases. Alfred scoffs as he drinks some of his coffee. “I know I'm out of my element, Alfred. You're the closest thing I have to a parent, and while I'm sure there are things you'd wished you'd handled differently I want to assure you that I am very appreciative for everything you've done for me. Which is why I don't want to rely too heavily on you once the baby arrives, excluding advice and occasions where I can't be at home.”

“So we're calling your hobby 'occasions’ now, sir?” It's a rhetorical question, and Alfred continues before Bruce can consider commenting. “What  _ will _ you do when the city calls to you for help?”

“I know I have to be more careful when fighting crime. I'll call upon the GCPD more frequently for backup, and take every precaution possible to ensure my safety. If that means I'll be fighting crime less, than so be it.”

“You say that now,” Alfred says, “but, sir, pardon my frankness, but we both know it's easy to  _ say  _ you'll cut back, but I have serious doubts whether or not you'll actually keep that promise.”

“The need for the Batman in Gotham has dropped. Many of my roles helping the rogues are passive. We're trending towards a natural retirement of the cowl.” And he's alright, he's okay with that, if it means he's actually been able to help people. And looking back on the last couple months he can safely say he  _ has. _ “And in a few years maybe Richard Grayson can take over. He's certainly enjoyed helping me with smaller tasks.”

“Do your best to remember what you've said tonight when your options are stay home with a crying infant or go out and fight the Joker. Because if you had those options presented to you now I think we both know which one you'd choose.”

Alfred raises a fair point, and Bruce nods. “I'll remember. Selina and I still need to discuss quite a bit, but we have time.”

“Time will go by fast, Master B,” Alfred says. He gets up from his chair and pats Bruce on the back. “I suppose some sort of congratulations is in order. Congratulations on your life changing surprise, and try not to lose too much sleep now because it's the last good sleep you'll get.”

-

Selina didn't wake him when she got back to the Manor, if she came back at all, and Bruce wakes up to a nearly empty home the next morning. Ed and Oswald are still asleep in their guest room, and he finds Alfred putting on a light jacket by the front door. “You're going somewhere?”

“Just a yearly physical, and some other errands for the Manor. It's likely to be an all day affair.”

“Did you see Selina this morning?”

“No,” Alfred pauses his preparations and says, “now that you mention it, I'm not sure she was here. Try not to read too far into things, sir. It was nearly eleven when they  _ left  _ here for the hospital. She was probably just tired.”

“Right,” he nods. “That's what I was thinking. Have a good day, Alfred.”

“Same to you, sir,” he says with a quick nod, and Bruce finds himself alone.

He goes down into his lab to use some of his Sunday morning scanning for possible locations for Victor Fries. Unfortunately, there are many, and the criteria of not being on public record didn't narrow the field as much as he'd hoped it would. Although it does give him a slightly better idea where of some of the remaining crime families are hiding illicit activities. No one seems to suspect butcher shops in this city for some reason.

He spends most of his day working on a proposal for the Board come Monday morning, papers spread out across his desk and a nearby end table, a fresh pot of coffee on a warmer close by the entire time. If he's going to have a more passive role in the future he's going to do it  _ right,  _ and sometimes that means he's going to have to deal with losing a day of his weekend to paperwork.

Paperwork is boring at best, tedious, but there is a certain satisfaction to it; he feels a calm sort of self approval from seeing hard work produce something tangible, something that will help reduce his demand as Batman  _ and  _ the lives of others.

He would leave in a heartbeat if Jim called about a case, though. He can't deny the pull to do something physical. Bruce tells himself he'll take some time to go jogging since the weather is so nice. Maybe he'll extend the offer to Richard, in case he's bored now that school is nearly out for the summer. Or Selina, unless his concerns aren't unfounded and she is in fact avoiding him.

But that's illogical. She called him immediately after the scan to tell him her decision. There's no reason to dread speaking in person now that they're both on the same page.

“You look like a real adult when you work at a desk,” Selina tells him, and Bruce looks up just as she finishes climbing in through the window. “Hey.”

“Hello.”

She stands in front of Bruce's desk, and he isn't sure what he's supposed to say now. Thank you feels strange and cumbersome, but nothing else comes to mind. Selina sits down in a nearby chair, sprawling out comfortably and sighing once she's settled. “It's only awkward because you aren't saying anything.”

“I wouldn't say this is awkward.” Although he doesn't know what else to call the pregnant silence either. Poor choice of words. “Your scan went well, as you said.”

“Thing looks like a  _ bean _ . Not much to see right now.” She idly pokes a finger near her navel. “Apparently they start with tails and kind of just,” she makes a sucking sound, “suck it right back in. Crazy stuff.”

“It’s a remarkable process,” he agrees. “It's kind of exciting.”

“Thirty two weeks, or something like that.” Selina fiddles with her nails, pushing back at her cuticles with intent focus.

“That gives us plenty of time,” he says. “Were you planning on moving in before or after?”

“What?” Selina looks at him through the spaces between her fingers.

“Well, I assumed you would want to move in. But if you feel more comfortable being at your apartment beforehand that's perfectly fine.”

“Bruce I'm not moving in.”

“Oh,” Bruce chews on his lip. He'd assumed the baby would live here with them, given the ample space, but she  _ is  _ the mother. Maybe there's some unforeseen benefit he doesn't know about, something maternal he doesn't have knowledge of yet. “Well, I suppose that's alright.”

“I don't think you know what you're agreeing to.”

“Well, you're suggesting the baby live with you in your apartment. Most of the building isn't up to code but that can be changed easily enough.”

Selina shakes her head. “The baby isn't living with me.”

Bruce frowns. “I don't understand.”

“Look,” she sighs, sitting upright and planting her feet back on the ground, ready to bolt out of here, “you're ready for a kid, I get it. But I can't do the whole picket fence domestic happy family thing. You  _ know  _ me, Bruce. What did I ever do to suggest I could do  _ that _ ?”

“You're having the baby,” he says. “Are you doing it because of what I said?”

“No.” She covers her face; when she looks back up her eyes are hard. “This is just about _ me _ okay?”

Bruce shakes his head and stands from his desk. He needs to pace, because otherwise the tingling in his legs might send him running off. The floor space isn't huge, but it's enough for him to get about ten solid steps in before he has to turn around. “To make this clear, you’re having the baby but you don't want it.”

“I didn't say that.”

“You just said you weren't staying here implies you don't want a baby.”

“I didn't say I don't want to, Bruce! I said I can't! Okay?” Selina rolls her eyes. “You don't listen to anyone do you.”

“I don't understand,” he admits. He stops his hurried pacing and sits in an armchair across from Selina. “So tell me. Help me understand.”

She crosses her arms, chewing at her bottom lip and sighing. “Whenever I think about a kid, this kid, I can see you, okay? I can see you and a kid. I've seen you with that little goofball that wants to be like you, and you won't be anywhere near perfect but you'll always be there. But I'm never there with you. Whenever I think about me and a kid, I think about my mom. And how her leaving really, really screwed me up. I can't do that to a kid. So, I think it's better if I just,  _ don't  _ stick around, and you just raise it. Then when I leave it won't mess it up so bad.”

Bruce remembers Selina's mother, he remembers the hurt he saw in Selina's eyes, the loss all over again, and while he can't fathom the actual feelings behind that kind of loss he remembers what it felt like in that alley, back when his whole world was collapsing in on itself right before his eyes. There's a quiet devastation, realizing you're alone in the world.

“You don't have to leave.”

“We both know I'm not really good at sticking around either. And, I don't know, maybe someday, maybe I  _ can _ . But right now, I know it won't work if I stay.”

Right now, well there's no baby right this second, there won't be for several months. There's time to process this, time to understand and grow. Bruce looks at his hands, and then up at the portrait of his family, and he nods. “Okay.”

“Okay? That's it?”

“You're being honest with me about your concerns. And honesty goes a long way. It's alright to be scared. I am too. But I'll be here for you, and I assume, or at least hope, you'll do the same.”

Selina nods. “Not  _ here _ here. I still have other stuff to do. And I'm not moving in. That's final.”

Bruce nods. He gets up from his chair and pours himself a single serving of an aged whisky, one his father only rarely drank from. “Special occasions” he'd told Bruce once. Anniversaries. Birthdays. Rare moments in time where it felt he deserved to celebrate. Bruce takes a sip, savoring the alcohol burn as it warms his throat, and he toasts at the portrait.

Now, right in this second, Selina's scared. She's just accepted that she's having a baby. There's no reason to force her into making more big decisions for herself right away. They have time.

“I'm planning on going jogging, if you're inter-”

“Pass.”

“We've jogged together before.” He chuckles at her abrupt dismissal, and the exaggerated shrug she sends his way. “Why not now?”

“My boobs hurt,” she says.

“I see.” He doesn't have any solutions so he doesn't try. “Are you busy later today?”

“I'm dragging Ed's sorry butt over to Ivy's hideout for something. By the way we're using your boat.”

“Oh, alright,” he hopes Ed spoke to Alfred about this already, not that Bruce would have said no. “So that's a yes.”

“Might pop back in, who knows.” She stands and stretches out her back, popping it in a few places and sighing contently as her spine settles. “See you around.”

-

“The PharmaGo campus was the site of a dual attack by two of Gotham's known rogues. I think we're all familiar with the incident so I'm going to press forward to why I've called you in today.” Bruce clicks to his next slide. “PharmaGo was a lead pharmaceutical company before this attack, but the cost to rebuild is too substantial a cost for the company to take on. I've been in preliminary contact with the current CEO, who is currently in the process of selling their assets and formulas, and we've worked out a potential deal that will benefit both our companies.” He clicks to a budget slide. “There are fifty employees remaining. There are also the aforementioned formulas, which are unique to their company. I am proposing an absorption of their staff, and of their formulas. We will take on several proprietary drug formulas in this process and increase our potential seller's market tenfold, and the employees from PharmaGo will already have the knowledge necessary to produce the drugs. Are there any questions so far?”

“I have one for accounting,” a woman raises a hand quick and Bruce nods to her, and she flips through pages as she talks, “the finance records you gave us this morning included several donations from you, Mr. Wayne. What was your prior involvement with one of our competitors?”

“First, I will assure you that any donations I made to PharmaGo was from my own personal fortune and not from the Wayne foundation.” He should consider including some sort of donation for the families that lost someone in the attack. “Second, the donations were personal in nature relating to a friend of mine, whose wife is very ill. PharmaGo was researching a treatment for a disease Wayne Enterprises was not. With this absorption, if approved, Wayne Enterprises will be the manufacturer of a treatment for an otherwise rapidly fatal disease. Now, are there any questions from HR?”

-

The positive feedback from Bruce's proposal comes with a heavy price: mountains of paperwork to complete. Some fifty-odd people are being considered for hire, new methods and formulas being adopted by the existing pharmaceutical department, and Bruce needs to approve a somewhat hurried budget accounting proposed to him later in the afternoon. Plus, he's moving forward with a relief fund for the victims of Firefly and Victor Fries’ attack. Regardless of how much he tries to give this a positive spin he's still dreading the need to stay later than five.

Which is why he's very grateful to receive a phone call from Jim around six. “Hello, Bruce Wayne.”

“Bruce. Jim. I'm in a rush,” he sounds like he's jogging, actually. “Ed's in the hospital.”

Bruce rockets out of his chair and starts for the door. “What happened?”

“No clue. Lee called me.” He groans. “How hard is it to find someone with the last name Nygma in a hospital?”

“I'm at the office.” He glances at his watch, then puts a hand on the door handle. “I can be there in about fifteen minutes.”

“No, you don't have to, I'm just keeping you in the loop.” Jim snorts. “Nashton. Figures.”

“You don't want any help?” He stops before he opens the door, standing a bit awkwardly because of the aborted movement.

“I'm just here to be the bearer of bad news for whatever officer  _ thinks  _ they're going to arrest them.” He's stopped moving, breathing fast as he catches his breath. “Finally got their exoneration finalized. Mayor signed it and everything.”

“How did you manage?”

“Let's just say I'm really sticking my neck out on this one and leave it at that.” Bruce can hear footsteps again as Jim starts moving. “If we're really desperate Batman might need to make an appearance but I doubt we'll need him tonight.”

“Alright,” Bruce releases his hand from his office door and walks back to his desk. “I'll keep my phone nearby. Send Ed my condolences. I hope it isn't serious.”

“I don't know much. I'll let you know what's going on once I know anything.”

Jim hangs up and Bruce drops himself back into his chair. His hands are fidgety, tense. He was expecting some sort of small scale confrontation and now he needs to burn off his excess energy. Bruce forces himself to read the rest of the budget instead. Afterwards, he'll go on the roof, do a few exercises, and then he can finish with his work.

At least, that was his plan, but he's just finishing off his signature when his phone begins ringing. Bruce snatches it up and answers before looking at the name on the screen.

“Jim I can be there as soon as possible.”

“Um, Batman, sir? This is Richard, uh, Robin. I'm uh,” Richard lets out a long breath and whistles. “Well I think I found something you gotta see, holy geez, I think I found that guy you're looking for.”

“Fries?” Bruce asks. He's up and already thundering out of his office, rushing down the hall towards the stairwell so he can reach the roof. “Do not engage. How did you find him?”

“Well see, I got this radio scanner with my allowance,” Richard admits reluctantly, “and I found a signal from a warehouse, some security guard. I don't think he got a call out but  _ I  _ heard it, so I called you. He said 'i need backup, we got the ice cube guy up in the north wing. Then nothing.”

“Where are you?” Bruce starts running up the few flights separating him from the roof, already signalling Alfred for some radio assistance.

“Just south of the old iron mill. I'm way far back so I can't see much, but there's all these  _ icicles  _ on the vent system.”

“Stay where you are. I'm on my way.” Bruce hangs up and calls Jim. “We have an emergency. Richard may have overheard a security guard calling in Fries’ location. South of the iron mill.”

“Shit,” Jim swears, “I'll be right there.”

“I'm going to find Richard first. He's still near the scene. I'll see you shortly.”

Bruce slides open a small closet near the roof and presses his thumb to a hidden print scanner, and a small panel opens in the back, revealing one of his spare suits. Bruce pulls on the pieces quickly and radios Alfred once he's on the roof, gliding across to the next roof towards the iron mill. “Alfred, Richard may have found Fries. I'm closing in on the location.”

“Are you in the spare Master Bruce?”

“Yes. What changes doesn't it have?”

“Less mobility in the plates, but we upgraded all spares to have the same equipment in your belt, sir. You shouldn't feel underprepared, but still be wary. This feels an awful lot like a trap.”

“I know,” Bruce says. “But Victor needs our help.”

“Agreed, sir. I have a lock on Mr. Grayson's location. Thank you for offering him that communicator, by the way. It appears he's on the roof of the old tenements near the bridge.”

“Thank you.” Bruce lands on a roof four buildings from Wayne Enterprises and angles himself towards the next roof. “I've called in Jim for assistance. We may require radio silence.”

“Best of luck, sir. And be careful.”

“I will.” He taps the communicator and continues heading to the industrial district.

Bruce finds Richard hunkered down on a roof overlooking the bay, and he gestures Bruce over with an excited wave. “There aren't even GCPD officers here yet. I don't think they got a call.” He pulls out a tool from his pocket. “I tested that thermometer thing on the building and it's  _ way _ colder today. That guy in the lab confirmed it.”

“His name is Alfred. And I need to thank you Richard. You've done well,” Bruce tells Richard, and Richard beams up at him, “And now I need you to do exactly as I say. Go home.”

“What? But I can help-"

“No. You've helped tremendously, but this is going to be very dangerous. Freeze isn't in his right mind, and Jim Gordon won't condone your continued involvement in this matter.” He puts a firm hand on Richard's shoulder and gently pushes him towards the edge of the roof. “Get home as fast as possible, and I'll be sure to call you with results from the mission.”

“Okay,” Richard shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, quietly sulking but not giving off any warning signs that he'll try to stick around. “When  _ can  _ I help?”

“When you're older, and you're helping  _ now,  _ just not the way you want.” Bruce offers Richard a hand to shake, and Richard takes it. “On behalf of the GCPD and Gotham's citizens I thank you, Richard Grayson, for your tireless efforts in the search for Victor Fries.”

Richard laughs a little at Bruce's over dramatic proclamation, and he grins at Bruce right before artfully diving off the roof and heading south. Bruce watches until Richard is nearly four blocks away, then he slides down a drainage pipe to the street below to wait for Jim to arrive.

He doesn't wait long. Jim's driving would have gotten the average Gothamite pulled over, but he eases the car onto the side of the street in front of Bruce, tires shrieking a bit as his brakes fight against inertia. Jim's expression is grim, but determined, and he pulls a vest out of the back of his car and straps it on, pulling a small firearm out of his holster and unlocking the safety.

“What do we know?”

“Richard intercepted a radio signal from a security guard claiming Fries is inside. There has been no further contact, and the GCPD were not summoned to the scene.” Jim side eyes the building. “I have my suspicions.”

“Sounds like a trap to me,” Jim sighs. “Are you thinking we should try handling this on our own?”

“Fries is a wanted man now more than ever because of Strange. And because he's not in control of himself he won't be able to surrender quietly even if he wanted.” Bruce scans the building, noting the icicles on the vents, one of the most obvious signs of Fries. “If it’s just the two of us we might be able to handle this quietly.”

“Remember when I said I hated paperwork?” Jim sighs wistfully. “Sure do miss it right now.”

“I understand the feeling.” Bruce checks his belt for his taser and begins moving forward. “Because this environment is suitable for Fries I’m going to attempt to shock him, but we don’t have anything suitable at the Manor quite yet.”

“And I’ll be your backup,” Jim says. He readies his gun and begins moving towards a staff entrance. Bruce follows right behind him and uses a universal key to unlock the door. “Can you get me one of those? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought something like that would be useful.”

“Remind me after we get Fries, but yes.” Bruce cracks the door open and a rush of cool air whooshes out. “Keep an eye out for his grenades. During the PharmaGo attack his gun was damaged, and it’s possible he hasn’t repaired it yet.”

“What I wouldn’t give for a vacation,” Jim mumbles as they step into the building. He turns on a small flashlight and shines it in front of Bruce as they make their way down the dark hallway. There’s a faint chill in the air, and the deeper into the heart of the warehouse they go the colder it gets, until their breath is condensing in little puffs. Bruce’s armor is more than enough to keep him warm, but Jim’s in a light jacket, certainly not warm enough for sub-zero temperatures. They’ll need to move quickly to avoid any loss of coordination or motor function.

“What’s the plan once we have him?”

“If we’re able to apprehend him, we have to maintain minus twenty degrees. We may need to close off the warehouse, claim it’s a crime scene in order to utilize its facilities.” Bruce licks his lips, which he regrets in hindsight as they begin to chap. “Although, if his suit isn’t damaged this is a moot point.”

“Something tells me we won’t be that lucky,” Jim says. His teeth are beginning to chatter quietly. “Jesus what’s the temperature in here?”

“According to Richard’s thermometer, just below freezing.” Which isn’t ideal. If Fries is relying on the building itself then he’s already in some trouble, because that’s too warm for him. “Let’s move quickly.”

"You know, if I wanted to keep chasing everyone down in the freezing cold I'd wait until this winter," Jim hisses out a whisper. "What if Firefly's here?"

"It's rare for them to be together. Fries has difficulty being anywhere near heat, and Firefly by design is known for, well, fire. They don't mix well."

“So we’re just hoping?”

“That’s a fair assessment.” Bruce puts a hand out and stops Jim from moving forward. “Hold a moment.” There’s a steady flow of condensing air flowing out from underneath a door frame. The hall appears to have been intended to store things at room temperature, given the unsealed doors and thin walls. Bruce feels the wall separating them from the room, and even through his armor he can feel the cold. “Here.”

“That’s got to be colder than freezing.”

“I agree. We may need to consider upgrading the infrared thermometer, although I believe this room doesn’t have an outside wall.” Bruce scans the hallway one last time before putting his hand on the doorknob and slowly opening the door.

Inside the room is spartan, empty excluding a single shelf with cleaning supplies. It’s been overturned, the contents strewn about the floor. Some of the bottles and containers have popped open, and there are a few multicolored, iced over puddles on the floor. There’s the unmistakable form of Fries’ suit, crumbled on the floor near the wall, and Fries, curled up on the floor next to a small canister of liquid helium. The temperature is cold, but the helium isn't sufficient, and Victor's brow is dotted with beads of sweat.

“This is relatively unexpected,” Bruce says. He moves across the room and kneels in front of Victor, who snaps his head up, wary, black goggles still in place but there’s a hope there too. “Victor why are you here? The door is unlocked.” He turns around and sees Jim standing guard, then he turns back to Victor. “I understand what Strange has done to you. We’ll take you somewhere. Jim, if you’ll grab the suit-”

“No,” Victor says, quietly. “No, you shouldn’t be here.”

“This is sounding an awful lot like the bait telling you this is a trap, Br-Batman.” Jim looks over apologetically.

“He knows, it’s alright.” He suspects a part of Victor Fries must have worked it out ages ago. “Victor we’re here to help you. James Gordon and I, we’re going to bring you somewhere safe.”

“She’s here, in the building.” Victor glances around Bruce at the door. “You can’t be here.”

“We’re going to be gone before she gets here,” he assures Victor.

“Bruce,” Jim calls his attention. “Bruce!”

Jim ducks as a small spurt of fire emits from Firefly’s flame thrower. Bruce uses his cape to try and block some of the heat from reaching Victor, who’s already sweating a bit in the unevenly chilled room.

“Step back,” she says. “Now.”

“You’re working for Strange,” Bruce says. He sneaks his hand into his belt and quietly hands over a small distress signal. He turns back for a moment, watching as Victor scrambles to cup it in his hands, and Bruce turns back to Firefly, standing to keep himself between her and Victor. “I ask you refrain from using that in here. The temperature is already too warm.”

“Then step back,” she says again, finger on the trigger. Bruce looks back to Victor, making sure he’s hid the signal somewhere. He nods once, tiny, almost imperceptible, but it’s enough for Bruce to feel comfortable enough with moving aside. Bruce moves over to Jim, and he watches as Jim feels his head for any scorched hair.

“You haven’t been burned.”

“Good.” Jim sighs. “So what’s the plan here? Are we taking her out? Rescuing them both?”

“I don’t know what she’s after.” Bruce watches Firefly lean down and put a communicator into Victor’s ear. He imagines the only reason he isn’t fighting back is the flame thrower pointed at his chest. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

“I don’t like it, whatever it is,” Jim says. Firefly turns back to them and stands next to Victor’s side. “Traps usually involve, you know, an actual trap. Not, whatever the hell this is.”

“A message,” Bruce says, watching Victor stand with some difficulty, his face contorting. He can just make out the sounds of faint static coming from the communicator. “From Strange.”

Victor looks right at Bruce; he can feel the intensity through his goggles. He tries to fight whatever Strange is telling him, breath panting, but eventually he speaks. “ _ The voice of parents is the voice of gods, for to their children they are heaven's lieutenants _ .”

Bruce blinks. There’s a full body chill that runs down his back. He regards Victor, still panting, and Firefly, still ready to send a spout of flame into Bruce’s face. No one’s moving, and Jim is obviously confused, as is Bruce. No one moves, no one talks, there’s just a deafening silence aside from the quiet hiss from the helium canister.

“Victor-”

_ -a string of pearls, snapping, beads scattering across the alley- _

He looks to Victor, unable to hide the uncertainty in his expression, a sense of fear, maybe, or terror. Victor’s expression is slack.

_ -two shots, quick succession- _

Definitely terror.

“Jim we need to go,” Bruce whispers. He grapples for Jim’s arm. “There are things you aren’t privy to that are raising some serious concerns.”

“What’s happening?” Jim pushes Bruce out into the hall, and Firefly doesn’t follow. She probably never intended to in the first place. “What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know.”

_ -you’re not a monster, you’re just a man- _

“Bring me to the Manor,” he whispers. “Please, Alfred, he’ll, he’ll know what, he’ll know  _ something _ -”

“Okay, okay,” Jim grabs Bruce’s arm, “alright Bruce, just take it easy-”

_ -blood pools in the alley, they aren’t moving, aren’t breathing _ -

“He’s done something,” Bruce says, eyes wide. Jim pushes him into the passenger seat of his car and buckles him in. “Strange. I don’t know, Jim, there’s-”

_ -his parents, Matches, the dark alley, pearls- _

“Just hang in there, alright?” Jim puts on the siren of his car and speeds across town. “You’re sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?”

“They can’t help.” He pulls off the cowl and holds his head in his hands, pressing in at his temples and grinding his teeth. “I don’t know what this is.”

But it just keeps coming, over and over again. The alley, Matches, and the alley again. He can barely see the street as Jim drives; the buildings are all a blur. It isn’t until he’s easing the car to a stop and pulling Bruce out that he realizes they’ve reached the Manor. Bruce tugs his arm free of Jim’s and pushes his way through the front door, finding Alfred standing in the foyer, already tugging Bruce along with him without him having to say a word.

“Just take a few breaths, Master B,” he says. He brings him into the study and down into the lab, leading him across the space and over to the room. Of course. Alfred’s right, this will help. Bruce takes a few deep breaths, tugging at the neck of his armor, and the quiet snap of pieces releasing echo in the space. He tears off armor pieces one by one, stripping down to his underthings, uncaring, and he steps inside.

It’s dark. By design, he supposes. He bangs on the wall twice, closes his eyes, and when he opens them again there is light. Bruce sits against a wall, tugging his legs in, and he closes his eyes, but that only makes the images stronger, more distinct, and he sobs, pulling at his hair as he hides his head against his legs.

-

His joints are still, painful, but he can’t bare to move, can’t do anything but clench his teeth and scream into his legs. He sobs. He clenches his jaw so tight it feels like his teeth are cracking, and still they come.

The door opens, but no, that’s not right. He’s supposed to wait until he’s  _ better _ , and if anything, he’s just getting  _ worse. _ Bruce peeks up, watching Alfred cross the space, holding a glass of water  _ -the blood smelled so strong, the rain made everything so much sharper-  _ and he rubs the base of Bruce’s skull, helping him to relax his jaw enough to drink from the straw.

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to change our plans, Master B.”

“I need more time,” he rasps. “Please-”

“Bruce,” Alfred chides, he touches Bruce’s shoulder and guides him up, slowly, and Bruce stumbles once his legs are supporting his weight, “normally I’d agree with you, believe me, but it’s been two days. We’re going to need to change tactics on this one, I’m afraid.”


	14. Chapter 14

Ed's crutches make a mildly annoying, very audible clicking sound as he ambles around the Manor, leg sporting a rather cumbersome brace around his injured knee that does nothing for the now persistent ache in his tendons. He's beginning to appreciate just how lucky he was before Strange attempted to get the upper hand. He'd give just about anything to have only occasional pains, although Lee keeps telling him not to despair quite yet.

He settles into a couch in the parlor on the first floor, sighing with relief when the elevation he provides his leg eases some of the pain.

“I hope you're prepared to no longer be the sure pick for most sympathetic in the Manor,” Oswald comments from somewhere above him. Ed looks up and smiles softly as Oswald smirks down at him. “Although you're still _my_ first pick for what it's worth.”

“That's quite the bias you have Mr. Cobblepot,” he says. “I think if we're being honest I lost that title once Bruce went into that room.”

“He's coming out today, apparently. Alfred said so, at least.” Oswald moves around the couch Ed's occupying and settles into a nearby chair. “I don't know what state he's in now.”

“Nor do I,” Ed says. “Are we hoping for the best?”

“I think we're all sporting a ‘come what may’ attitude nowadays.” Oswald looks over across the room, and when Ed turns to do the same he sees Bruce, looking lost and unhappy but upright. He has a thick, warm afghan wrapped around his shoulders and his hair is greasy from two days of doing, well, nothing but hiding away in a locked room in the basement.

He licks his lips nervously, looking between Oswald and Ed. “Hello.” His voice cracks a bit, and he drinks from a glass of water he's keeping hidden under his blanket. “I trust you're both well.”

“Well enough,” Oswald says first. “Certainly not anything you should bother with.”

“You're feeling better?” Ed asks. The way Bruce's expression falls says enough. “I see.”

“Strange has done something. I don't know what.” Bruce shivers once, and pulls the blanket tighter. He moves onto one of the couches across from Ed and sits with his legs pulled into his chest. “I don't know how to stop it when I don't understand how it started.”

Ed sits up carefully, looking to Oswald, who's looking back with a grim expression. “Oswald could you get my notes?”

“Don't get used to it,” he says, although there isn't any bite to the comment. He gets up without any genuine protesting and leaves the room to find Ed's things.

“Bruce,” Ed starts, “tell me what happened. You found Victor?”

“We did, and he was,” Bruce pauses to grimace, his mouth opening in shock, a quiet agony Ed is unfortunately beginning to remember himself. “Sorry. He was in a room, and his suit was off. I think,” he shakes his head, “I suspect Strange made him do that, so we couldn't get him out before Firefly returned. He was defenseless. Overheating. And then, after she joined us in the room, she put a communicator in his ear, and he said something. The, the voice of-”

“Don't, please,” Ed holds up a hand. “Not aloud. In a moment, oh, thank you Oswald,” he accepts his notes and flips to the page with the quote. “Read this, but not out loud. I can't stress that enough.”

He hands over the notebook to Oswald again, who hands it to Bruce, and Bruce skims the page, watery eyes blinking fast as he reads _the_ quote. “He said this. Word for word.” He sets the notebook on the coffee table between them. “What does it mean?”

“It means that we underestimated Strange's ability.” Ed sits back with a heavy sigh and rubs his temples. “He established two means of control. One you're familiar with, and the second I only discovered a few days ago, when it happened to myself. You're remembering things, correct? Difficult memories?”

“It hasn't stopped once.” Bruce wipes at his face with the blanket, although he isn't crying.

“Do you feel a pull?” Ed asks tentatively. He glances to Oswald, who up until this moment has not heard about this part of the control method. “To seek him?” Bruce bites his lower lip hard enough to bleed, and he nods. “I don't think I have to tell you not to do that, but I'll reiterate if it will help you feel a bit better. Seeking him is not the only answer, and it certainly isn't the ideal one.”

“How did you break free?”

He's hopeful, but Ed doesn't have the answer he wants. “I discovered, in my haste, that shocking the system also snaps you out of the state, although,” he sighs, “although I wasn't under its influence for long.” He shakes his head. “Minutes, at most. The shock required was relatively small, in comparison to what you might require. I don't think there's a shock strong enough to snap you out of this without also killing you.”

The couch dips slightly as Oswald comes to sit beside him, and he grabs Ed's hand, drawing a finger over his knuckles and sighing with irritation. “You could have told me that,” he whispers. “About _him_.”

“I should have,” he says, but he silences any further comments with a firm look, at least while Bruce is in the room with them. “I don't know what happens if you never seek him out. You might have to just endure, and hope that you can eventually break free on your own.”

“Where is Selina?” He gulps a few times, his voice is thick. “I think, I think I would prefer it if she was here.”

“We haven't sent her off today,” Oswald says. “Not that I'm aware of, at least.” He glances to Ed, and Ed shakes his head. He's been sleeping off a mild painkiller fugue ever since he was discharged, and he didn't bother with work when he could barely keep his eyes open. “We could give her a call.”

“I can, but thank you. I'll,” Bruce's voice hitches, and he hurries out if the room, a curt “excuse me” as he exits, without any explanation, although Ed understands.

“He _called_ to you?”

“In a vague sense,” Ed explains. “I like to think of it as an implanted instinct. It's how I saw through it, actually. Enough to realize what had to come next. I had to override the conditioning.”

“He's not going to just snap out of it, is he?” Oswald says, still looking at the door Bruce disappeared through. “It doesn't work like that.”

“No, it doesn't.”

“Well I sincerely hope Gotham can do without its star vigilante until you figure something out.” Oswald leans against Ed's arm and runs a finger over the upper straps of his leg brace. “Strange better hope I don't see him anytime soon unless he wants a face full of my cane.”

“The hero Gotham deserves,” Ed jokes. Oswald jabs him in the side with his sharp fingers.

-

“May 26th, while working in the lab a distress signal began going off.” Ed sets down his recorder and reads the generated report on the signal. “Near the iron mill,” he mumbles, “Victor. Oh, Alfred!” he calls across the space to the small workbench where Alfred is cleaning some of Bruce's armor. “Alfred,” Ed says again, this time crossing the room on his crutches as fast as he's able, “there's been a distress call.”

“Has there now?” He gets up from the bench and joins Ed by the computer monitors, eyes skimming over the reports before asking, “notice anything a bit funny here, Mr. Nygma?”

“I assume you mean the location, yes,” he hums to himself. “It's identical. Same building and everything.”

“I don't think it's too much to ask that you keep this to yourself.” Ed looks at Alfred, and his stern expression. “Do I need to explain?”

“No, I'll erase the signal.” Ed clicks a few buttons on the keyboard, and after Alfred's moved far enough away, he bites his lip, hesitating, but he shakes away his concerns and sits down at the communication station, ticking away at the keys until he's mapped Robin's communicator into the alert network.

It only takes a few moments before he's getting a call, and Ed reassures himself that Alfred is back to his cleaning before answering Richard with a small tap to his headset. “Batcave. I must confess I've been itching to answer that way.”

“Is this Enigma? Okay, so this thing started beeping when I was at dinner, and my mom got all mad because I had my _phone_ , but I didn't so uh, what's this thing doing, exactly?”

“It's an alert signal. Someone Batman's given a signal to is calling out for help.” Ed licks his lips and looks to Alfred again, still nothing. “Now, you're not supposed to engage directly, but I have a request.” He scowls up at the screen as he types, attempting to get a better idea about the exact location of the signal. “It's coming from the north end of the warehouse you found for Batman.”

“I’d have to sneak out,” he whispers. “Are you sure I can go? He keeps telling me I'm not old enough.”

“For confrontation. This is purely reconnaissance. Wouldn't you agree?”

“Well,” he pauses to think, “I'm not going to fight anybody?”

“Absolutely not.”

“In that case, yes.”

He sounds rather excited. Ed closes his screens with the signal and gets up, leaving in the headset. “Alert me once you've arrived at the location. I'll be elsewhere in the lab.”

He approaches the lab bench, busying himself with some menial setup, hoping his actions are convincing enough to Alfred in order to not raise suspicion. He connects a few clean tubes to his beakers and flasks, cleans out a gritty set of test tubes, and by the time he's moved on to the separation funnel he hears a soft beeping in his ear.

“Alfred?” he whispers, turning to find that, apparently, Alfred's left him alone in the lab. “Fortuitous,” he says quietly, sighing with relief he makes his way across the floor and leans his crutches against the desk and maneuvers carefully until he's properly seated in the chair. “Hello, Robin?”

“I'm at that place. There's a whole bunch of ice all over the windows.” There's a small ding on the monitors and Ed opens up an attached photo sent from Richard, humming as he notes the various levels of frost on the windows. “It wasn't there the last time, just some stuff on the vents.”

“It's certainly more haphazard than last time.” And more noticeable. The building looks like it's been sent into the winter season early. “Tell me, can you see indoors past the windows? Anything interesting?”

“Um.” There's some clambering and scraping of shoes as Richard moves about the building, and an unfamiliar clanging before Ed overhears him griping about vertical drops. “I still can't see much.”

“Still?”

“I'm in a vent, holy winter, it is _cold,_ ” his teeth start chattering as he moves through the metal.

“Clever,” he says. The vent system should give him access to the entire building. “Do you see anything?”

“It's getting _colder_ ,” he hisses. “There's some slick spots.”

“Come on, where are you,” Ed whispers. “Robin, try the open warehouse, if the venting has access.”

“Can do!” He crawls a bit faster following Ed's request, and the only indication that he's seen _anything_ is a tiny gasp and a “holy woah” muttered into his communicator. “Okay, I see the main warehouse. There's a whole _truckload_ of ice around the doors. It's _freezing._ ”

“What else?”

“Um, a tube? It's in this like, smaller alcove. Hold on.” He starts crawling around again; Ed's leg shakes from anticipation. “Woah.”

“What is it?” He hears a soft ping again from the monitors and clicks the photo, laughing with glee when he sees that, inside this mystery tube, Richard's found a woman. Ed begins loading his database of rogues and opens up Victor Fries’ file, navigating through his notes until he finds the photo of Nora. Side by side, the resemblance is glaringly obvious. “Congratulations Rich-Robin. You've found his _wife._ ”

“Awesome!” There’s a long pause and some shuffling on Richard's end. “What do I do?”

“Exit the building. I'll have a team there shortly.” He ends his call with Richard and phones Oswald, tapping excitedly as he waits for him to answer. When he does, Ed speaks quickly, “Oswald, I have a favor to ask you. Do you have access to a box truck?”

-

Ed drives his car slowly behind the small box truck, watching Gabe's face in the brief moments it appears in the rear view mirror. He glances to Oswald, who's eyeing the industrial district warily, and to Selina, who's ignoring the two of them in favor of listening to something on her phone.

“You really should have let one of us drive.”

“Neither of you can drive my car,” Ed reminds him. And it's not like his right leg has to _do_ anything while he drives.

“You're ignoring the part where _Bruce Wayne_ owns at _least_ one inconspicuous vehicle.” Oswald huffs a few times but opts to not continue in favor of returning his attentions to the side streets in the district.

Bruce. “Selina?” He calls for her attention with a wave of his hand, and she leans forward through the front seats, popping one earbud out as she does. “Bruce is alright? With your absence, I mean.”

“He was on the phone with Lee last I heard.” She shrugs. “If she'll let him he'll talk all night.”

“She's a good listener,” Ed says quietly. Oswald gives him a curious look, and Ed shakes his head. “We're nearly there. Keep an eye out for Richard.”

“When did he become the team mascot? I feel like you're keeping me out of the loop on purpose. Little shit wants my job.” Ed realizes she's being humorous, and doesn't answer her question. Selina waits until Ed parks the car before hopping out of the back, but just barely. Oswald turns fully to Ed once he turns off the car.

“I remember having a conversation about our involvement being _passive_ , Ed. This is most definitely an _active_ role.”

“Extenuating circumstances.”

“You haven't come up with anything to _alleviate_ these circumstances?” Oswald touches Ed's shoulder, and Ed shakes his head once. “So this is your backup plan to appear _useful_?”

Ed feels the sting of a phantom voice without actually hearing one. Something like, _when have you ever actually been useful,_ and he says, “I’ve perfected the formula. My interference allowed us to find _Nora_ , and-”

“Poor choice of words. You've done _plenty_. More than plenty, actually.” Oswald squeezes his shoulder tightly, and Ed closes his eyes, nodding. “Which is why I don't understand why you think you need to do _more_.”

“We should convene with the others.” Ed unbuckles himself and shrugs off Oswald's hand. He finds the remainder of the group over by the driver's side door of the box truck; Gabe's opted to remain seated in the cab and Richard keeps glancing over to the warehouse excitedly, but once Ed and Oswald join the group his shoulders drop, and his expression changes to one of obvious confusion despite his eyes being covered by his trademark goggles.

“This should be a simple in and out. Robin, you haven't seen anyone in the building?”

“It's quiet. But the doorways are all blocked by ice.” He glances around the group again. “So where's uh, Batman?”

“Busy,” Selina says before anyone else can answer more honestly. “But we can handle this without him, okay?”

Richard nods. “Yeah, course. I don't know how to carry that tube thing though. It's _huge_.”

“It'll be a group effort, most certainly,” Ed says. “But we'll change plans accordingly if need be. Now, Selina, if you would be so kind.”

He gestures to the door and Selina pulls out her kit, waving Richard over to, “hold the light, kid, and watch a _pro_ do this.”

She isn't even done picking the lock when Ed hears an all too familiar, “GCPD, put your hands where I can see them,” and Ed leans his elbows on his crutches enough to raise his arms as Jim Gordon rounds the back of the box truck. “Oh for fuck’s sake.”

“James,” Oswald says with a smile. His hands are up, but he puts them down to hold his cane with both hands. “What a surprise to see you here.”

“Selina,” Jim says with authority, and a bit of warning, “get over here.”

Ed is beginning to feel a bit queasy as Richard quietly walks over, one hand on his other arm, and Selina saunters along with him, glaring at Ed and putting her hands on her hips.

“What the hell is going on here?” Jim holsters his firearm and points at Richard, “you, talk.”

“Yes sir,” Richard says, cowed, and he shuffles his feet a bit as he explains, his gaze trained on the ground the entire time. “I got an alert on my communicator, and this was the location.”

“I know about the signal,” Jim taps the earpiece in his ear. “I get them too. And I _thought_ we all agreed that it was another trap, and that we weren't going to investigate.”

“You've got to be kidding me,” Selina groans.

“Whose bright idea was it? Anyone?” Jim looks right at Ed, and when Ed glances away he sees that, well, _everyone_ is looking at him, and the unwanted attention is making him squirm, not necessarily an easy feat on crutches. “Ed?”

He licks his lips. “I may have had a hand in planning this,” he pauses, searching for a word to put a nice spin on this, “endeavor.” He sets aside his crutches, leaning them towards Oswald in the hope that he'll keep them upright, which he does, thankfully. Ed might've felt like crying a little if he'd let them fall to the ground. With them away, he feels a bit more comfortable talking through his logic. “You assumed it was a trap too hastily, but it's too messy, too obvious, and if you aren't going to investigate when it's clearly genuine then someone _else_ has to.”

“And this is the team you decided to bring with you? No offense.”

“None taken,” Oswald assures Jim, speaking for the group apparently, sans Ed. “In fact I'd like to get it on the record now that I am at _best_ an unwilling party, and only came along because my loving husband insisted on seeing this through _personally_.” Ed's not sure how Oswald managed to make the phrase “my loving husband” feel like such a burden but it leaves a sour taste in the back of his mouth. “In fact, I am shocked, _shocked_ that you would even _consider_ placing blame in my hands when my only role is 'the man that can get a box truck’.”

“You're laying it on a little thick,” Ed snaps at him.

“Shush,” Oswald hands the crutches back and Ed juggles them while Oswald stalks forward until he's right in front of Jim. “Now, James, I know the rest of this ragtag little group seems a bit _under-prepared_ , with our most capable member being a _teenager_ , followed shortly by the one that's _pregnant_.”

“Spread it around town why don't you,” Selina moves forward and glares at Oswald, but he brushes her off.

“I am, at best, a poor choice for a supervisor, because you can rest assured knowing I wouldn't _dream_ of having a more active role than that. You can't blame me for _Ed's_ poor choices. In fact I'm fairly sure it's unlawful.”

“It isn't, actually, because it's called being an accomplice.” Jim pinches the bridge of his nose. “You aren't really helping your case, Oswald.”

“Ask the _boy_ , then.” Oswald steps aside and motions for Richard to step forward. Much to Ed's dismay, Richard doesn't hesitate. “Go on. Explain who convinced you to come here. Tell Commissioner Gordon _everything_.”

Richard fidgets with the zipper of his sweatshirt. “Well, there was the distress signal, and I came here to do recon, but I couldn't see anything from out here. The doors are locked, and most of the entryways are covered in ice. So I went in the ducts, and I saw this _tube_ thing with someone inside. So I told him,” he points to Ed, “what I saw. But, well, when Enigma said there would be a team I thought that you'd be here too, or Batman. Mostly Batman. Sorry.”

“Enigma? Wh-Ed,” he sighs tiredly. “And you went _inside_?”

“Just the ducts. I fit into the air ducts, and they weren't iced over on the roof.” He fidgets with the edge of his sweatshirt. “Batman said I couldn't engage so I didn't go inside the actual rooms.”

“Who told you to do recon?”

“Enigma.” Richard looks over, apologetic, but Ed does his best to ignore the pity. “And then I waited for the team.”

“This team?” Jim gestures to the rest of the party.

“He didn't say who. Is there something else going on tonight? Because Cat said Batman was busy, but he gave someone that signal himself.” He's nervous, Ed realizes, maybe about other villains? Or the city as a whole?

Or Bruce? He doesn't know, surely, but he's not going to rule out a lucky _guess_. “So shouldn't he be here?”

“Couldn't make it,” Jim shrugs. “Happens. He's a busy guy.”

“But he's okay?”

“No,” Ed says quickly. An uncomfortable silence takes over the group, but Ed brushes off the accusing stares. It's not like he's _lying_. “He's not _five._ ”

Richard comes very close to forgetting his “secret” identity and touches his goggles, but he puts his hands in his pockets before he gets the goggles off. “But he will be okay, right?”

“We're working on it kid, okay?” Selina gives his shoulder a playful punch. “Give the guy some credit.”

“Right. Right!” Richard puffs his chest up. “Nothing defeats the Batman.”

“That’s the spirit,” Jim tells Richard, then he tells Selina, “you should probably get back there. We won't need a lock pick.” When she stares at him he shrugs. “It's fine if I break doors.”

“Suit yourself,” she rolls her eyes, but there's a certain amount of relief in her voice. “Have fun getting chewed out guys.”

Richard is the only one that waves, and Selina doesn't wave back. He shoves his hand back into his pocket and looks to Jim. “Does she mean me too?”

“No. But first, thank you for being honest.” Jim kneels down a little and Richard nods. “Now go home, Richard.”

He glances at everyone, and back to Jim. “Doesn’t that mean I _am_ in trouble?”

“If your parents catch you when you're sneaking back in, hell yeah. But not from me. Get going.” Richard nods, and he starts running off towards the south bridge. Ed watches for a few more seconds while one more buffer against Jim Gordon's stern glare disappears into the night. “Oswald, give us a minute.”

He doesn't say anything aloud, but Oswald whispers something to Jim before he walks away, offering Ed a sympathetic pat to his chest before giving them a wide berth. Jim's stance becomes lax, casual, with his hands in his pockets and some of the anger gone from his expression. “Help me understand _why,_ Ed.”

“You'll have to be more specific.”

“Why are we here? Why did you ignore Alfred? Take your pick.”

Ed takes a few quick breaths, and he holds the last one, releasing it in a rush when his vision swims. “The distress call was frantic, unorganized. He must have hit the button a dozen times at least. And the location,” Ed gestures to the warehouse behind him, “is one we know Strange has operated out of. For a trap, it's archaic, unpolished. He wouldn't waste the time and effort to try to use this place again.”

“Okay, sure, but you _do_ realize you sent a _kid_ out here, alone, to a place where Strange has operated out of? You know what would have happened to Richard if Strange caught him.”

Ed bites his lip. “I told him not to engage.”

“For God's sake, Ed he's _fifteen_ . He doesn't know when he's in over his head until he's already drowning. Most fifteen year olds have _zero_ self preservation skills, and you sent him in with weights around his ankles.”

“He's smart enough to-”

“No, Ed, he's not. And he shouldn't _have_ to be, either. You're the adult, and we're supposed to set _boundaries_ so he'll learn, not throw him into unknown situations and hope.” Jim sighs. “You talk with this kid, you know how he is. He means well but he's young, inexperienced. He doesn't have a lot of survival instincts.”

“Survival instincts kick in when necessary. Age isn't a factor.” Ed huffs. “Either they kick in and you survive, or they don't, and that's it. It's _nature_ , and if he doesn't have what it takes Bruce wouldn't have taken him under his _wing_ , and if I _hadn't_ you wouldn't even _know_ about Nora-”

“Ed,” Jim touches his shoulder, and he feels his muscles relaxing with every breath. “Bring it down a notch. You got lucky, okay? He didn't get hurt, and you were right about the signal, but you can't just break into the warehouse either. For Christ's sake I exonerated both of you _two weeks_ ago. At least give me a full _month_ before I have to bail either of you out.”

Ed drums his fingers along the bars of his crutches and nods. He can admit to himself that he was a bit hasty with his plan. He also notes the hand still on his shoulder, and finds himself reluctant to bring attention to the fact. It isn't hurting anything by being there.

“Let's just agree that I was wrong about the call and you were wrong about breaking in without giving me a little warning. Deal?”

“Alright,” Ed agrees. Jim claps his hand on Ed's shoulder and removes it. “How did you get here so quickly?”

“Richard set off a silent alarm. You're damn lucky I got the call and not the GCPD itself.”

“You're the Commissioner,” Ed reminds him, laughing a little to himself.

“Feels more like being a babysitter,” Jim mutters. “Come on, let's get this over with.”

Jim grabs something from the back of his car, a crowbar if Ed isn't mistaken, and when Ed opens his mouth to question why Jim uses it to snap the handle off the door. Ed's eyebrows raise in surprise.

“What?”

“That was a bit _brazen_ of you,” Oswald comments. He slinks back to Ed's side and touches his lower back, and Ed nods. He's alright, and Jim for Richard seems like a fair tradeoff for the task at hand.

“Well whatever punks broke in to mess around must have broken the lock, couldn't get it open. Necessary casualty to ensure the safety of Gotham’s citizens.”

“And to think I considered you a _role model_ ,” Oswald teases. “Well, let's get inside before any well meaning officers decide to give Jim a hand.” He moves towards the door and Ed follows, crutches clicking along as they move down the halls.

Jim, being the quickest and most armed, is in the lead, firearm out and ready in one hand and the crowbar in the other. He taps on a bit of the ice they find along the way, chipping off bits of Freeze's super chilled formula as they follow the trail.

“Would it be unreasonable to ask Freeze to spray some of this in the aquarium once we're decorating the interior? There really is no beating the real thing.”

“Not really the time, Oswald,” Jim tells him as he cracks a chunk of ice off a door frame. The crowbar echos in the narrow hall every time it hits.

“A man can take influences from his surroundings at any time James.” Oswald runs a single gloved finger along some of the frost on the walls. “I suppose having a wanted criminal as a decorator could complicate matters.”

“Hold this,” he hands Oswald his gun, “consider this permission to defend us.”

Oswald turns so he's watching Jim and Ed's backs, posture loose and comfortable as he handles the small firearm. Ed flexes his fingers around the grips of his crutches and does his best to ignore the vulnerable feeling they give him. It's not the first time he's been on crutches this _year_ , and it's certainly not the first year he's had them. He's plenty mobile, just not all that dexterous when he has to keep hold of them at all times. But one look at Oswald's sure stance calms him, as does the triumphant shout from Jim when he manages to break through the iced over door.

“Alright, we're in,” Jim says. He turns around and looks at Oswald and Ed, and he sighs tiredly. “How the hell did we end up as the only team members again?”

“Don't forget the added bonus of Ed being on a stylish pair of crutches,” Oswald smiles. “I must say it's quite the improvement.”

“I considered outfitting them with some sort of self defense mechanism, but Lee suggested I rest instead.” And maybe he's feeling a bit of extra pain from being upright, but he'll take a few days to relax once they're done here.

“Right.” Jim shrugs. “Okay, this should lead to the main floor of the warehouse. Keep your eyes open for anything.”

“I sincerely hope you have a second gun for yourself James. I'd hate for you to feel vulnerable.”

He grumbles, but Jim does pull a second firearm off an ankle holster. “Don't lose that one.”

“Was it a gift?” Oswald turns the gun over a few times. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news but someone doesn't like you very much.”

“Can we just go?” He pushes open the door and gestures for them to walk through. Oswald leads, shortly followed by Ed. “The day I see you take something seriously is the day I genuinely worry about Gotham's future.”

The door opens up to a two story high room filled with machinery and shelving. All of the windows and doors are iced over, and when Ed looks to the floor he sees a thin layer of frost. To be safe he moves a little bit slower, clicking along at a slow pace until they reach the center of the room.

“Jesus Christ.” Jim walks the perimeter of a horizontal tube, shaking his head and getting a good, long look at Nora. “How the hell did you think you were going to move this?”

Ed moves in a bit closer and touches the surface of the tube, feeling the cool glass with his fingers. “This plan may have lacked a bit of forethought.” He purses his lips, moving in just a bit closer, peering in at Nora's still form. “Something isn't right.”

“What?” Jim asks, and Ed watches as a small puff of warm air makes a small could as he speaks. “You mean the thousand pound tube or the part where it isn't on wheels?”

“There's a layer of frost on the outside,” he says, indicating the corners of the glass. When he wipes at them again the heat from his fingers melts it away. “That isn't good.”

“You're going to have to explain,” Oswald whispers, hand back on Ed's lower back, “if you want any sort of collaboration on whatever problem you've discovered.”

“This isn't cooling.” Ed moves away from the side and over to an end. He finds a giant plug where the power supply should go, but no core, and certainly no way to power it here. “She's thawing.”

“Oh shit,” Jim taps his communicator, “I'll get Gabe around to the loading dock, you stay here. Alfred?”

Ed focuses on Oswald, who's holding his gun up, ready to defend them both. “This really is one of the shittiest pistols I've ever handled.”

Ed chuckles. He focuses on the tube again and his expression falls. “She would have died.”

“Hm? Oh, her.” Oswald glances over his shoulder at Nora and back to the open space around them. “Well, I'm sure Victor will be very grateful that you aren't an idiot.”

“You're still irritated.”

“You're astute.” Oswald moves a bit closer, gun still pointing at the various iced over doorways, as if anything is actually going to make it through any of them in the near future.

Ed seethes and closes the gap between them, knocking his crutch against Oswald's shoe and pulling on his arm. “The danger to us is minimal.”

“The danger would be non-existent if you'd taken a moment to _think_ and _explained_ why it wasn't a trap rather than dragging the two of us away from the Manor.” Oswald tugs his arm free from Ed's grip and jabs a finger into his chest. “So don't get angry at me for being angry with _your_ poor choices.”

“You've made plenty yourself,” he snarls back. “We can't go _home_ because you couldn't resist the temptation once you learned the property belonged to Barbara. I saw the _glee_ on your face. You couldn't _wait_ to take something from her, consequences be damned.”

Oswald glowers at him. “I'm going to watch for Gabe and Jim. Try to keep yourself out of trouble in the meantime.”

“Same to you.” Ed fumes and watches Oswald move across the open room to a garage style door. Oswald doesn't turn back around, so Ed focuses on the tube.

It's a simple design much cleaner than the one Ed's familiar with. The smaller size increases the efficiency of the cooling, and Ed hopes the smaller size also means the total weight is more manageable. He watches as a bit of frost melts under his fingers, and he huffs quietly. Nora's body appears to still be frozen, acting as a sort of ice pack as long as they keep her inside the cryo tube. But outside the temperature is rather warm, even with the sun down, enough that she won't last long in this state. They need a power source in the very near future.

He hears a loud mechanical screening and Ed looks up across the room “James, good of you to join us,” Oswald says, one hand still on the garage door he's opened. He gestures Jim inside with the pistol. “Ready to relocate our frozen friend's wife?”

“Yeah, and we're in luck. You didn't mention the box truck comes with a pallet jack.”

“It isn't my job to know _what_ comes in one of those,” Oswald gestures to the truck, “things. I'm a _businessman_ , not a construction worker.”

“Well then step aside businessman, because this is still going to be a _bitch_ to move.” Jim sighs and pulls a pallet jack over to the cryo tube. “Only in Gotham, Jesus.”


	15. Chapter 15

Bruce pulls the afghan tighter around his shoulders and settles further into the corner of the couch he's claimed as a mental home base. He's home, obviously, but claiming something physical as a kind of safe zone helps a little when a fresh wave of memories wash over him.

Granted, the help it provides is somewhat similar to throwing a glass of water in a forest fire, but miniscule help is still preferable to no help.

“Thank you, again,” he tells Lee. He cradles his cellphone in his hands. “I'm sorry I've kept you so long.”

“Bruce you are not the first person to talk to me about your woes until it's past midnight, and unless I get some serious pull at the hospital you won't be the last.” She drinks from something, a mug, maybe. Mugs hold coffee, tea, anything, really. Focus on the details, on the phantom smells. Bruce grits his teeth as a new wave hits. “And we can keep talking, Bruce. I'm not going anywhere until you're comfortable with me doing so.”

“I don't want to keep you up all night.” And he could. Easily.

Lee is quiet on her end of the line, long enough that a memory sneaks up on Bruce, and he covers his mouth to keep her from hearing him make a sound. He whimpers behind his hand, and bites the side of his hand to quiet himself.

“I know this is going to be hard to hear,” Lee says, “but I'm not comfortable hanging up if you're going to be alone.”

“I understand.”

“You never said what brought this on. I think it might help for you to tell me.”

Bruce chooses his next words very carefully. “A recent event has caused painful memories in my past to,” he sucks in a breath, “demand attention. Memories I hadn't buried, but maybe preferred to not think about quite so frequently.”

“I get the feeling you aren't planning to tell me more than that. It's okay. I don't want you to share something if you aren't comfortable with others knowing just yet.”

“Someday,” he says. Maybe not to Lee specifically; someone else who's aware of Strange's current methods might offer more insight and understanding. He glances up when he hears a soft tinkling of cups, and watches as Alfred sets a tray on the coffee table before sitting in a nearby chair. “If you're still uncomfortable leaving me alone Alfred's just come into the room.”

“Tell Miss Thompkins I'm more than willing to sit up with you if the need arises.” He picks up a mug and drinks. Coffee with cream, based on color and smell. Hazelnut, maybe, or another similar, nutty roast.

“He's brought coffee,” is all Bruce manages to convey. His voice feels thick again, heavy on his tongue, and he wipes at his eyes, assuming he's started crying. He's not wrong.

“Take care of yourself Bruce,” she says. He soaks up the warmth and sympathy, focuses on it, and it drags his mind away from the memories for a few blessed seconds. “And I know sleep doesn't sound very inviting but you should try to rest.”

“I will. Thank you.” He doesn't return her goodbye; he's preoccupied by the sound of pearls hitting the wet pavement. She hangs up after a bit of silence and Bruce turns his attention towards Alfred. “She's worried.”

“I think we all are, sir.” He gestures to the second mug on the tray. “Cream, no sugar.”

“Thank you.” Bruce reaches out for the mug and hesitates, wincing, then finishing the motion once the crest of the memory has passed. “Sorry to keep you awake.”

“You're hardly the only reason, Master B. James Gordon gave me a call just a few moments ago. It seems our friend Mr. Nygma thought it pertinent to investigate a distress call from Mr. Fries.”

“He sent a signal?” Bruce looks down at his mug and focuses on the color and the gentle steam that rises from the surface. “When? Why wasn't I notified?”

“You're hardly in any condition to go investigate, sir. There was an original consensus that we should assume it was another trap, but Mr. Nygma took it upon himself to assume otherwise. With the aid of young Mr. Grayson, he determined the signal to be genuine. They found his wife in a cryotube in the warehouse.”

“Nora,” Bruce whispers. Focus, remember her face. Blonde hair, gentle features. He's never heard her voice. She was frozen long before Bruce started fighting crime. He imagines she'd sound kind, or motherly. “Victor wasn't there?”

“Not that I've heard. We're going to have long night ahead of us.” Alfred glances down at his watch and sighs. “They should be arriving shortly, sir. I suggest we relocate to the lab.”

-

Bruce watches the box truck pull into the delivery ramp in reverse. He bites his lip, holding his elbows to steady himself. Selina bumps her shoulder against him playfully. “Kid crawled in through the ducts and found her.”

“You didn't see Victor anywhere?”

“I left early to get back here.”

“I see.” He bumps her shoulder back lightly. “I think he must have returned to Strange.”

“Then how'd he get her out?”

“Every time I've spoken with him he appears to be fighting the conditioning.” Bruce rubs his temples and huffs out a long breath. “He must have broken free long enough to move her. Or possibly, she was there all along, just not above ground.” It wouldn't be the first time Strange has utilized unreported building structures. “He wants us to protect her.”

Gabe and Jim hop out of the box truck cab, and Jim strides over to Bruce with a determined look on his face. “Hey. We got a couple problems.”

“What kind?” Bruce asks. “Where are Ed and Oswald?”

“That's not the problem. They're upstairs, probably. They drove separately.” Jim runs a hand through his hair. It's turned gray more than Bruce remembers. “We have the cryotube, but Freeze didn't leave the power cables. And she's starting to thaw.”

“No cables,” Bruce repeats. He watches as Gabe opens up the swinging doors of the truck and he hops inside. He finds the cryotube and kneels beside he end where the power cables should go. “That was deliberate.” Bruce sits on the edge of the truck back and concentrates, pushes through the swamp of memories to genuine critical thought. “He wants her to thaw.”

“What?” Jim shakes his head. “Why?”

“He didn't provide the power cables, and they're nonstandard. He's an intelligent man. He knows we have some of the potential treatment here at the lab. He wants her to thaw.”

“Why wouldn't he just leave a damn note?”

“No time. She must have been on location. Victor couldn't have moved this on his own, and that means he must have removed the cables himself instead.” He slides off the truck and closes his eyes. It makes the memories worse but he accepts them, let's then flow over him for a minute while he leans against the truck side. “Get a gurney. I'll speak with Ed about his progress.”

He rushes upstairs, focusing, channeling every available neural pathway to Nora and speaking with Ed. It works for a little while, but he stops in his tracks when he finds Ed and Oswald quietly sitting at opposite ends of the large dining table, pointedly ignoring one another while Ed uses his tablet and Oswald drinks some wine, and the resulting hesitation swings his thoughts back into place. No, not place, this is not their place. Bruce digs his nails into his palms.

“How are you both?” Bruce asks. He watches Ed fill in a crossword, stares as each letter appears on the screen.

“Fine,” Oswald answers, curt. He takes his glass and stands. “I'm going to bed.”

Ed doesn't respond. Oswald tuts disapprovingly before making his way to the central staircase, cane clacking in rhythm as he presumably ascends the stairs to their room.

“You're angry with one another,” Bruce hazards. Ed glances up once and nods, returning his focus to his screen. “Thank you for investigating the signal.”

“They arrived, I assume.” Ed dims his screen and sits back in his chair. “With Nora?”

“She's here, yes. I was hoping you would agree if I told you I believe Victor wants her to be thawed.”

Ed opens his mouth, but he doesn't say anything, blinking a few times, and he hums quietly. “That _does_ clarify some of his intentions, yes. I'd agree with you.” Ed stands and grabs his crutches. “You're going to ask about the medication I've been making?”

“I was.” He shifts his thoughts away from damp brick and mortar and back to medication, doctors, conditions that are treatable. “You've made significant progress. I was hoping you would deem it usable.”

“We'll need a doctor,” Ed says. “The drug is ready but it's still in trials. And, based on what I've read of her ah, medical reports, her condition prior to freezing was somewhat bleak.”

“I'll call,” he gasps silently. Not _him._ Never him. Ed tries to move closer, he's concerned obviously despite the volume of Bruce's reaction, but Bruce steps back, sputters out, “Lee. I'll call Lee.”

Ed nods. “And I'll tell Jim. He's downstairs?” Bruce nods. Ed begins heading towards the study, pauses and turns back, but Bruce shakes his head. He doesn't want to discuss this. He's doing everything he can to _not_ think about this.

Bruce takes his phone out of his pocket and hits redial, already forming an apology for the time. She picks up quicker than he expected, but he works through the guilt quickly. “Lee, I understand this call might look worrisome, and I want to apologize. I'm,” he pauses, “well enough, but I think we'll need your help here at the Manor. A friend of mine needs urgent medical attention.”

-

Lee arrives about twenty minutes later at nearly two in the morning, hair up in a messy bun and a jacket thrown over her pajamas. The look of sympathy she gives Bruce makes him wonder what state he must be in, and after taking a moment to glance at himself in a mirror in the hall he decides the state is not good. At the very least he needs to muster up the energy to shave and shower.

“This is going to be difficult to explain,” Bruce starts. He glances over to Jim, who's bleary-eyed and obviously tired, and back to Lee, who isn't much more awake. “We've,” he pauses, “acquired sounds insufficient.”

“We have Nora Fries here, slowly thawing, and we needed a doctor,” Jim says.

Lee blinks a few times, and she shakes her head. “Nora died years ago. I was _there_.”

“Dr. Strange reanimated her. I don't know the specifics of when or why.” Bruce ushers Lee into the foyer and shuts the door. “I know this must sound far fetched. We can take you to her if you're willing.” Jim sends a wide eyed look Bruce's way; surprise, maybe concern as well.

“It's not that far fetched in Gotham,” Lee says. “If she's thawing she needs a real hospital.”

“It isn't safe for her at Gotham General,” Bruce says. Lee gives Jim a look.

“What?” Jim gapes at her. _“_ Don't look at me like that. _He's_ the one that said it!”

“And you had no part I'm sure,” Lee says. She keeps side-eyeing Jim regardless. “Reanimation isn't some terrible secret in Gotham. Why can't you bring her to a facility that can actually care for her?”

“I can't say,” Jim says. He shrugs. “Not my place.”

“That's convenient.” Lee pinches the bridge of her nose. She's frustrated with them. “You asked me to come here and _help_ , but I don't know what you think I can do in an old house that I can't do better at a real hospital.”

“I have all the equipment you may need,” Bruce tells her. “She'll be well cared for here, and safe from Strange.”

“You both need to start making sense if you actually want my help. And Bruce, you need to take care of yourself. Ignoring your problems and focusing in others isn't the answer.”

He can't get himself to get out of bed right now if he doesn't have a point of focus, but he doesn't say that out loud. Instead he says, “I'm Batman.” Jim nods, then double takes, looking at Bruce with wide, shocked eyes. “This wasn't my original intention but if Lee is going to trust us she deserves to know the truth.”

Lee sighs quietly, and she gives Bruce another once-over, maybe realizing she hasn't really seen the real him in years. “You're the Batman.”

“Yes.” He shoves his hands into his sweatshirt pocket. “You should know that events related to my crime fighting responsibilities caused my current state. Strange is controlling people using a new method of conditioning. He has Victor Fries under his control, but tentatively. His control has become rather fragile, and during one of Victor's moments of clarity he alerted us to Nora's presence. If Strange were to find her, he would possibly do something to her because of Victor's continued delinquency.”

Lee purses her lips, “is that what he did to you, Bruce?”

He's quiet for a moment, but if he's quiet too long they'll flood back, and he says, “more or less. I'd appreciate your help, and I'm sure Victor would as well.”

“She was near death,” Lee begins. "We'll need to be quick." She starts walking forward and stops just as suddenly. “You're going to have to lead the way.”

“Right this way,” Bruce says, indicating the door leading to his study. “There's been a breakthrough treatment for her condition, one that may undo some of the damage and give her more energy, relatively speaking. Ed, Ed Nygma, he's been producing it here after PharmaGo was attacked and destroyed. We have a small supply, and my company has taken in PharmaGo's remaining employees and procedures. Production is still a ways off, admittedly, but the trials for the treatment were very promising.”

“So you don't know if this is going to work,” Lee clarifies. She blinks in surprise when Bruce opens up the secret door. “That's clever.”

“I have quite a bit of extra floor space you've never seen. Alfred will show you around in the morning, but the thawing is happening rapidly, and as a result addressing any possible health concerns quickly is important.”

Lee and Jim follow Bruce down into the lab, and he gestures to the medical wing he and Alfred have set up, usually intended for some of Bruce's less successful nights on patrol, but today there's only Nora on a gurney, skin slowly dripping water into the sheets as she thaws out. Ed is nearby on a stool, crutches still situated under his arms, watching the process and noting things on a clipboard. He smiles briefly in their direction, at Lee if Bruce isn't mistaken, and she nods to him before moving to Nora's side.

“Have you detected any heart beat?”

“No. She's at least another twenty minutes away from that. Although the blue pallor is beginning to lessen.” He hands Lee the clipboard and pushes himself up with the use of his crutches. “I'm not actually sure where most of the medical supplies are kept. I tend to stay over there,” he points, “in the lab space.”

“Bruce, I'll need a heart monitor if you have it, some warm blankets, and fluids. She's going to be weak once she's awake, and I don't want her to go into shock when she wakes up here.”

Bruce busies himself with the task, pours all of his spare attention and focus into finding the equipment Lee requests, and watching her and Jim out if the corner of his eye, noting the comfortable way she touches his shoulder when he offers to make some coffee upstairs. She calls him a saint; he says something corny in return, something that sounds like I'm not the one that's a saint, although Bruce wasn't right next to them at the time.

“Thank you,” Lee accepts the equipment Bruce has brought over on a cart and starts setting up an IV bag. “Bruce, I don't want to be pushy in your home but go to bed.”

“I can still help. Jim and Ed don't know where to find everything.”

“We'll manage. Go get some rest.” Lee puts a hand on his arm. “If you're telling me the truth now then you're telling me that Strange has tortured you in some way, and you're not taking care of yourself. Go try to sleep. And if you can't sleep at least lay down for a little while. I'll be here when you wake up.”

Bruce licks his lips. “There's a couch down here. Near the lab.” Bruce looks over at the couch. Ed's fallen asleep there dozens of times since he began working on the drug. “I want to be here to help.”

“Okay.” Lee smiles. “Now _go_. We've got this under control.”

Bruce feels the memories creeping. Angry, vibrant things demanding his attention. He focuses on the quiet sounds of the lab, the footsteps across metal flooring, the quiet murmurs between Lee and Jim, it's a white noise in its own right, and with his back to the room and legs in a gentle curl so he'll fit on the couch properly, Bruce finds a moment of peace.

-

When he wakes he can't move, limbs heavy, frozen, no, _restrained,_ and a pair of glasses, rose colored, and that _smile_.

“You'll find me to be a very patient man, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce's eyes fly open, and he curls in on himself, breathing harsh and fast. He fell asleep, he actually managed to _sleep_ , but now he feels like he can't _breathe_ , and his vision is blurry. He wipes at his eyes and finds them wet; he cried in his sleep again.

Slowly, his setting comes back to him; he's in the lab, there are people working in another room, loud enough to hear but not enough to understand. His watch beeps, and he blinks tiredly at the numbers until they resemble a time that's possible, 5:30am.

He sits up, moving quietly to try and avoid calling attention to himself, and he slides off the couch. Bruce takes one look at the gurney across the room and sees a small peak on a nearby machine.

“... Low, but it's steady,” Lee says as he approaches.

“Took long enough,” Jim groans.

“She's not thawed yet, not fully, but she's getting there.” Lee looks up from the heart monitor and right at Bruce. “Are you okay?”

Jim turns around, and Bruce feels a sick sort of dread crawling up his throat. He looks to Lee, back to Jim, and turns around, ignoring their concerned cries as he hurries upstairs to his bedroom. Selina’s probably there.

He doesn’t know what happens next if she isn’t.

But she's there, right where he hoped she'd be. Selina's spread out across his entire bed, impressive considering its size. She stretches and blinks awake, watching Bruce as he moves across the carpet and sits on the edge of the bed.

“You look like hell.”

“I need your help,” he whispers. “I know it's a lot to ask, and you should be asleep, but-”

“Bruce.” He watches her sit up and straighten the strap of her tank top. “Whatever it is just say it.”

“I don't feel real. I feel like I'm just the memories, and somehow I've taken shape into something resembling a person. I know that's not actually true, but I can't sleep, or when I do, I have nightmares. And if I'm not intently focused on even inane, small things my mind shifts back to them. I'm exhausted.” He watches Selina stand up from the bed, the small, gentle curve of her lower stomach barely covered by her shirt. She isn't wearing pants; she hardly ever does when she's in a properly heated space. “I shouldn't have bothered you with this. I'm sorry.”

“Yeah well, consider me bothered. Come on.” She reaches out a hand.

“Where are we going?”

“First step to feeling human? Taking a shower. You're getting pretty rank.”

“Okay.”

He follows along, letting Selina lead the way to the attached bathroom. She's been here plenty of times, enough to know where all of Bruce's things are in the cabinets and the perfect spot to turn the hot water knob to in order to get the ideal temperature. Bruce leaves his clothing in a pile on the floor by Selina's, and when she beckons him inside he doesn't hesitate to join her.

The warmth feels good on his face, which feels somewhat oily after several days of personal neglect. He focuses on the sound, the feeling, the smell of wet pavement. The way the collar of his coat clings to the back of his neck.

When Bruce opens his eyes he sees Selina watching him, and she touches his face. The alley, _no_ , the bathroom is dim; Selina left the lights on low. He grabs her hand when she tries to move it away from his cheek, and he closes his eyes, trying to shut down the tears before they can fall, but he can't stop sobbing. He puts his forehead on her shoulder, and he breathes faster and faster, trying and failing to get ahold of himself, to just _calm down_ -

She moves him to the bathtub, and turns the lighting up. Bruce rests his head against her legs while she sits on the side, looking up at the ceiling as Selina lathers his face with shaving cream.

“It was raining that night,” Selina says. Bruce flinches away from the thought.

“I don't want to talk about that night.”

“Yeah I figured,” she drags his razor up over his cheek in a single, smooth motion. “Hold still okay? Been a little while since I've done this.”

He isn't worried. Selina is very nimble, and he savors the feeling of each pull of the razor as she shaves his face, and the soft scratching sound as it moves over his stubble.

“You really need to figure something out to stop this.”

He waits until she's done with the next drag before speaking. “I know. Ed's method worked, at least when he tried.”

“Yeah, and he's still on crutches. I don't think you want to follow his lead on this one.” She rubs a hand over the half of his face she's already shaved. “Don't see why he had to use a _book_ , anyway. Your dumb stick taser is somewhere around here.”

“It's in the lab. I imagine he wasn't thinking as clearly as he normally does.” He sighs. “He thinks I should have induced the shock right away in order to prevent this from getting a firm hold on me, because it only gets stronger over time. A shock strong enough to snap me out of this could kill me, at least that's his theory.”

“He's been wrong before.” She dumps a cupful of water over his head and Bruce sputters; she's washing his hair, he realizes. She massages the shampoo into his scalp and he closes his eyes. “Just don't do anything stupid.”

“I’ll take your advice into consideration.” She taps his shoulder, hands no longer working at his hair, and Bruce takes a deep breath before dunking his head under the water.

-

He tells Selina to sleep, that he’s feeling a little better, that she doesn’t need to worry. He imagines she still does, but he pushes the thought away. If he’s right he’s going to overthrow Strange’s conditioning within the hour.

In the lab Lee calls over to him, tells him Nora’s coming around, and Bruce nods to her in thanks, but he doesn’t register the rest of the words she says. There’s a building sense of hope in his chest, a tentative, low fire slowly growing with each step he makes. In a back corner of the space where he keeps his equipment Bruce pulls out the taser, handling it carefully as he checks it for any signs of damage, or anything else that might suggest this won’t work the way he wants.

Bruce finds a quiet space in the lab away from Nora and the others. This will only take a moment, one shock and he’ll have his answer. There’s a quiet space near the entrance, and Bruce finds himself a relatively comfortable table to lie down on to prevent head injury. He blinks up at the rock ceiling and counts down in his head before switching on the taser and setting the contact points against his clothed leg.

His hand seizes up, and he shudders from the electricity coursing through him. He loses his grip, taser dropping somewhere as he quakes. He can’t keep his eyes open, he isn’t sure he’d want to. Eventually the trembling subsides and his body stills.

There’s a gentle lull in his mind immediately following the shock. Blink. Breathe. He turns his head to the side and sees the taser, undamaged on the floor only a few feet from the table. Bruce takes a deep breath, and savors the smell of wet pavement.

“No,” he shakes his head as he sits up, trying to clear his thoughts, to shake free, _something_ , but he can’t, and the lull he felt for a brief moment wasn’t worth the feeling of having every memory flood back all at once like a giant wave. He gulps, reaches down for the taser, pushes back against gunpowder burns and bouncing pearls as he pops open the back of the taser to examine the wiring. There’s a regulator, Alfred helped him design this years ago, but it’s easy to override, just a couple clipped wires, just a _bit stronger_ -

Bruce drops the taser onto the floor and covers his face with his hands. His breathing sounds harsh in his ears.

 _I’m a patient man_ . Bruce bites his lip. It would all be so _easy.  
_

He takes a few more breaths before getting up from the table. Bruce moves quietly towards the stairs, forcing himself to remain as calm as possible as he makes his way upstairs and to the main hall. The sun is up, but it's obscured by dark, stormy clouds. Occasionally a stray sunbeam peeks through when the wind blows the clouds away. The first floor is silent aside from a few creaks as the house settles, so Bruce moves on to the second floor.

He walks down the hallway past his bedroom and into the guest wing. The door to Oswald and Ed's preferred guest room is shut, but Bruce isn't sure what might happen if he waits.

Bruce knocks softly a few times, and he hears faint murmurs behind the door. Words whispered, the sound of sheets shifting, and then the distinct clink of Ed's crutches as he approaches the door.

Ed opens it halfway; his eyes are still glazed over and his hair tousled from sleep. When Bruce looks over Ed's shoulder he can just barely see Oswald still in the bed with his eyes closed; he isn’t asleep, based on the way he’s trying to subtly move so he's in the middle of the mattress.

“I'm sorry to wake you.”

“We weren't asleep,” Ed says quietly. “You look distressed.”

“I have a difficult question to ask you.” Bruce takes a deep breath, and he grips the door frame when he pauses for too long. “Sorry. I just, there are things I can handle, and things I can't, and this condition is quickly becoming the latter, so, please, I need to know if you know my control phrase.”

“Y-” Ed wipes his eyes and swallows thickly. “Your what?”

“Strange did this to make me want to seek him out for relief. But if you heard, if you _know_ , then we can use it.” Bruce pleads, “Please try to remember. I don't know how much longer I can endure this.”

“I know it,” Ed whispers. “He, when Strange-”

Bruce feels such a strong wave of relief it nearly knocks him over. “You don't have to explain.” he sighs. “If you're able come down to the dining room. I want to discuss this with everyone.”

-

Bruce looks between Ed, Alfred, and Selina, and back to Ed. He assumes no one else is planning on joining them for now and begins. “I've come up with a plan to break free of Strange's conditioning,” he tells them. “It's only a theory, but based on what Ed's told me, I believe it will work.”

“I hope you don't plan on attempting to _confront_ the man, sir,” Alfred says. “You're in no condition to enter into any sort of combat.”

“This is much more passive.” Bruce watches Ed fidget. He's not comfortable with this plan, surely, but then again neither is Bruce, not entirely. “It's relatively desperate, but I think we've reached that point.”

He gestures to a pad of paper, where Ed's written a simple phrase: _blood makes you related, loyalty makes you family_. He shivers just from reading it in his head. “While Ed was detained in Strange's lab he overheard Strange using my control phrase. I need someone here to use this on me, and then use the taser to shock me back to myself. My hope is that this will reset the cascade without letting Strange gain control of my actions.”

“Do you think that's wise, sir?” Alfred glances at the pad of paper and back to Bruce. “Relinquishing your autonomy even for a moment?”

“I don't have any other options.” Bruce rubs his eyes. He presses harder when he sees a masked man behind his eyes. “I can't let this continue, Alfred.”

“Well we haven't tried very many options, sir. You can't jump to the most outlandish idea just because common ones aren't working.”

“I used the taser in myself in the lab,” he says slowly. “When it didn't work I nearly override the safety mechanism.” He looks over to Alfred; his eyes are stinging, and they blur over when he sees the blatant worry on Alfred's face. “I can't do this, Alfred.”

“It's just one phrase?” Selina asks. She slides the notebook closer and skims over the words. “You think this will work?”

“I don't know what I'd do if it doesn't,” he admits, “so I'm working under the assumption that it will.”

“I can't,” Ed says. “I _won't._ I accept your logic, but there's,” Ed shakes his head. “I imagine there's a certain amount of _conviction_ required to make it work. Confidence, possibly. I haven't seen anything to suggest this but-”

“Because you don't want to do it, you think you wouldn’t be able to use the phrase properly. It's alright, Ed. We'll think of something.”

“I'll do it,” Selina says. Bruce looks over, marveling at the quiet confidence in her expression. “I just say this one phrase, and then someone will shock you, right?”

“Ideally, yes.” He looks down at the paper, and back up at Selina. He doesn’t want to force her into this. He doesn’t really want her involving herself in this at all, but she might be the only one confident enough to use the phrase properly. “You're certain you want to do this?”

“You've been a mess for a _week_ , Bruce. If this is the thing that can fix that I don't see why we're sitting around and talking when we could actually _do_ something to help.”

“Thank you,” he says. He wipes his eyes and looks to Alfred. “We should do this in the lab.”

“And you're not going to be the one shocking him,” Alfred tells Selina. “I said nothing when you hopped out the window last week but I draw the line at using a bloody taser.”

-

“So I just say this?” Selina says, and Bruce nods. She runs a finger along the notebook edge and looks down at Bruce. He tries to let his back relax further into the gurney they wheeled into a separate space in the lab. “What happens after that?”

“I assume I'll await a command. Please don't make me do anything embarrassing.”

“This isn't funny Bruce,” she says. He nods. “So I'll say this, and then you'll just lie there, and Alfred will shock you.”

“That's the idea, Miss Kyle,” Alfred says. “Comfortable, Master Bruce?”

“Relatively,” he says. He folds his hands over his stomach, and them returns them to his side. “Selina, I want you to understand that I'm very grateful for your willingness to do this for me. I'll do my best to avoid allowing this to happen again in the future.”

“Yeah you better.” She clears her throat. “Okay, here goes. _Blood makes you related, loyalty makes you family_.”


	16. Chapter 16

Ed pulls back the blankets of the bed and eases himself down onto the mattress. He left his notebook somewhere, the lab maybe, and he wants to write down yesterday's overall mood score but the thought of leaving the room again makes him want to scream. He's exhausted, running on about three hours of sleep tops, and his leg is doing its best to distract him with a heavy, persistent ache around his knee. He should really ask Lee to give it another once-over once she's gotten rest herself.

“You're looking a bit worse for wear,” Oswald says as he leans up on one elbow.

“Long night, day, one of those,” Ed mutters as he lets his head drop onto his pillow with a heavy sigh. Tomorrow, first thing, he’ll find his notebook. Following his success he’ll plan his next move, possibly a bath to ease the ache. Oswald has certainly given the practice glowing praise throughout the years.

“You’re tense,” Oswald notes. His free hand trails up Ed’s chest towards his face and takes his glasses off. “You’ve been working too hard.”

“Consequence of a job well done. Nora’s thaw has completed, and Lee requested my help.” Ed takes the glasses from Oswald and sets them on the bedside table. “She’s asleep, or possibly a shallow coma. In either case Lee reassured everyone that she’s breathing on her own, et cetera. Good news, overall.”

Oswald doesn’t comment, and Ed closes his eyes. He feels one of Oswald’s fingers run across his forehead and gently massage at the creases there. Ed tries to relax his face fully without Oswald noticing, but the huff from his left tells him he’s failed.

“You’re in pain.”

“I’m in _mild_ pain. Possibly as far as moderate, but certainly no farther than a 4. Manageable, if not a bit irksome.”

“I distinctly remember being _in the room_ when you were told to stay off your leg as much as possible.”

“I sat down plenty of times while in the lab.”

“I thought we reached an agreement!” Oswald sits up fully and scowls down at Ed. He angrily drinks from a glass of water from his bedside table. Ed imagines it as a wine glass based on the way Oswald swirls the contents. “How, exactly, am I to believe that you’re going to take less risks when you take more? I implore you, please Ed, help me understand your motives, because they are clear as mud.”

Ed folds his hands on top of his stomach and looks up to the blurry ceiling. “Doing something productive distracts me. Having too much time to myself has proven,” he searches for the right word, “self-destructive, in the past, as you’re probably aware. I calculated the risks thoroughly before making my decision.”

Oswald moves back down to his elbow and runs his fingers through Ed’s hair. “So the price you’ve chosen to pay is the use of your leg?”

“Some functionality of one leg.” Ed corrects. “There’s quite a bit of work to do here now to offer adequate distraction, all of which can be done from a chair.” He sighs. “Tomorrow I’ll ask Miss Thompkins to examine my knee again, and a bath should reduce some of the ache. That should counteract my decision.”

Oswald hums once. “Interesting. Now, is it really so revolutionary a thought to choose neither of those options? You’ve done almost nothing to entertain me in _days_ , and now I’ve come to understand that you were planning on taking a _bath_ without me? I am appalled.”

“You’ve been busy,” Ed says, smiling when Oswald gives an exaggerated huff. “Your work hasn’t been suspended.”

“Please. At this stage buildings practically erect themselves. It’s what a _contractor_ is for. Not everyone likes getting their hands dirty.” Oswald rests his head on the other pillow. “I know that was positively _ripe_ with innuendo but I will be very appreciative if you ignore it just this once.”

“My leg really does hurt,” Ed reminds him.

“I’ll draw a bath tomorrow,” Oswald tells him. His voice is low and steady, calming. Ed closes his eyes and focuses on the tone rather than the words. Bath preparation isn’t one of his specialties, nor does he plan to learn when Oswald has years of experience perfecting his craft. “...safe enough here?”

“What’s that?” Ed opens his eyes, watching the worry lines form over Oswald’s brow.

“Strange knows who Bruce is, knows we’re working with him. Hell, I’ll go ahead and give him some,” Oswald rolls his eyes, “ _reluctant_ credit and assume he knows we’re here, just for pessimism’s sake. We’re kidding ourselves, then, if we assume it’s safer here than anywhere else.”

Ed tries to shift just a little so he’s looking at Oswald more directly, but with little success. He sighs deeply and says, “Strange is intelligent, tactful. Attacking the Manor with any sort of force, unprompted in the public eye, would ruin his plans. He’s patient as well. Eventually we will be forced to go to him to confront him, maybe to try to stop him, or kill him. But he won’t come here. Not with Bruce’s identity a secret, and with Fish out there, well, they’ve never gotten along all that well, as you know.”

“She won’t be around forever.” Ed asks without saying anything, creasing his brow in question. “It’s a fact, Ed. Fish is active in the underground, in _crime_. Eventually, one day, Bruce will find her, and there’s nothing that can be done but accept that another safety net will go up in flames when he does.”

“True enough.” Ed reaches over to the night stand and switches off the lamp.

-

“Your tendon is still inflamed,” Lee says as she gently touches around Ed’s knee. “I’m guessing you haven’t been doing what I told you.”

“I may have been on my feet a bit more than intended.”

“You’re not going to regain full mobility if you keep overworking it.” Lee straightens and hands Ed his pants. He ducks his head to try to hide the slight flush on his cheeks. “Ice the tendon for twenty minutes, then switch to a heating pad set on low for thirty. Repeat this as much as you need, and please, Ed, stay off your leg.”

“Nora-”

“Hasn’t even woken up yet, and is stable. Her condition isn’t dire, and it certainly isn’t something you should be stressing out over. You’ve already done more than you can ever know just by _finding_ her.” Lee turns away to give Ed a little dignity while he struggles into his pants. He squeaks a little when he has to straighten his leg, but he tries to cover it with a cough. “If you really want something to do why don’t you make more of her treatment. We’ll need it.”

“You don’t know how she’ll react.”

“I don’t, but I’m starting to think I’m going to have to have some actual faith in you if we’re going to keep her alive.” Lee shakes her head. “I don’t care what you decide to do, but try actually listening to me, at least for my sake. I have enough going on around here between Nora,” she gestures to the bed where Nora still sleeps, “and Bruce is,” she shakes her head, “it’s been interesting.”

“I see.” Ed fastens the button of his pants and tries to smooth out some of the wrinkles without standing up. “I thought it worked.”

“It did.” Lee puts a hand to her forehead. “Physically, he’s recovered from the shock without any injury, and I feel comfortable telling you he isn’t struggling with the, the capsize-”

“Cascade.”

“Right. He isn’t stuck in his memories anymore, but he’s a long way from full recovery.”

Ed nods. “And this is where your second degree comes in, I take it.”

“I won’t divulge what a patient has told me to anyone Ed, you know that.” She folds her arms over her stomach and leans on a counter. Comfortable, at ease. She shrugs one shoulder and continues, “Don’t look so down. It’s an important part of therapy, knowing you can trust your therapist to never tell a soul what their patient has told them.”

“As long as you don’t pose a risk to yourself or others,” he finishes for her, voice monotone.

“It’s almost like therapy _wants_ be a helpful practice.” She pushes herself off the counter and walks over to Nora when one of her machines beeps. “I need to change her IVs. Go ice your leg and take it easy.”

-

“May 28th, I’m working on improving production of the medication for Nora’s condition in an attempt to increase productivity. Potential improvements include automation for aloquating the proper amounts-”

“Hey Ed, got a minute?” Jim calls to him, and Ed pushes his chair away from the lab bench, but Jim holds up his hands. “No, don’t get up, just answer.”

Ed sighs and pauses his recorder, setting it on his desk before settling into a comfortable position against the back of his chair and he shrugs. “I suppose.”

“Good, Nora’s waking up.”

“Right, I’ll stay here,” Ed agrees. He turns back to his desk and picks up his recorder. Jim swivels his chair back around and Ed blinks up at him, recorder still raised in his hand and an apparently comical expression on his face. “Or no?”

“Ed, she’s going to wake up in a _cave_ , surrounded by strange, futuristic equipment and people she probably barely remembers, plus some strangers, and Lee’s going to tell her she needs to take some medication some guy’s been making in the basement. You should be there. Explain that you know what you’re doing. Or if that isn’t convincing enough do it because Lee asked.”

“Right, well if she _asked_ ,” Ed feels bewildered, but also a bit flattered, and he turns back to the lab bench long enough to set aside his recorder before grabbing his crutches. “If you’ll give me a moment I’ll be right over.”

Jim nods and strides back over to the medical wing, and Ed steels himself for the somewhat difficult task of getting off the chair without jostling his leg. He takes a breath, then another, then he dives right in, moving off and landing solely on his good leg, letting his crutches catch most of his weight and keep him upright until he can right his balance. _Ice, then heat,_ he thinks. He’ll ice his leg again, then sit in a hot bath. Oswald will probably join him again.

When he reaches Nora’s bedside Ed accepts the chair he’s being offered and lets Jim place his crutches on a nearby wall. He feels a bit intrusive watching Nora stir, so he turns his attention to some of the medication he’s made, triple checking his calculations for dose and hours of effectiveness. By the time he hears the first soft confused sigh and turns around Nora’s eyes are open just a crack.

“Nora, it’s Leslie Thompkins,” she says softly, one hand on Nora’s shoulder. “Take things slow for me. Don’t try to talk until you give yourself a minute to wake up.”

She looks at Lee for a few more moments before turning to her right and staring at Ed. He licks his lips and waves. “We haven’t met. Ed Nygma.”

He feels a bit foolish when she doesn’t respond, but she also doesn’t offer any sort of greeting to Jim. She turns back to Lee and takes a raspy, rattling breath. “Leslie?”

“Yes, Nora, I know this must be confusing.” She nods to Jim, who rushes over with some pillows and helps Lee prop Nora up a bit. “We’ll answer any question you have.”

“Where’s Victor?”

Lee sighs. “He isn’t here right now, but he wanted you to be. There’s been a treatment developed for your disease, one that can give you a longer life, more energy. It’s quite a breakthrough.” Lee gestures to Ed. “He’s making it for you.”

“For me?” Nora scratches her cheek, knocking her nasal cannula off kilter a bit, but Lee rights it before Nora even notices. “Why just me? Is this a trial?”

“In a sense. It’s still unapproved, but it’s showing a lot of promise. But if you don’t want to take it we’ll understand.”

“Actuall-” Lee cuts him off with a sharp glare and Ed bites his lip.

“I know it’s a lot to process right away and if we had more time I wouldn’t have brought it up at all, but your lungs are having a hard time absorbing oxygen. The drug may help, but we don’t know for sure.”

Nora looks up at the ceiling, taking as deep a breath as she can, and she nods. “I want to take it.”

“Jim, can you get the first dose?” Ed turns around to watch Jim pick up a small container filled with Ed’s pills with a concerned, disbelieving look as he handles it like one would handle a small brick of C4. He hands it over cautiously, and Lee takes it with a smile. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Jim looks from Lee to Ed. “So you’re sure about your formula?”

“I have followed the original procedure to the letter and confirmed each identity using some of the best equipment available-”

“Ed, focus on me please,” Lee calls out to him. “Two pills is the dose, right?”

“Yes,” he coughs, embarrassed. “Yes that’s right. With a full glass of water, or as full as you’re able to handle, miss.”

Nora accepts help holding a small glass of water, but she’s able to swallow the pills without any further aid. She grimaces, and then chuckles softly to herself.

“What is it?” Lee asks.

“It’s nothing.” Nora sighs softly and takes a breath, and Ed knows it’s impossible so soon but he imagines it was a deeper breath than before. “It’s just, whenever I tried other treatments, the ones that tasted bad always seemed to work the best. Not very scientific, I know.”

“And how did these taste?”

“Terrible,” Nora says with a small smile. “The worst yet.”

-

“May 31st, I've rigged a simple aliquoting device up to prepare reagents for five runs. Each run yields approximately five doses. In the future I will begin ramping up my production size once I've created enough of doses to last several months.” He scribbles down a few calibration notes in his notebook. “Nora's immediate response to the drug is positive. She's exhibiting only minimal side effects, most of which include drowsiness, although fifteen years asleep in what equates to a coma certainly has some effect. See Lee Thompkins for more details.”

He sits back and flexes his knee, still uncertain of the mild popping sound he can hear when the tendon moves but thankful to have the bulky brace replaced with his smaller one that fits under his pants. He's nearly ready to begin calculating reagent needs for future, larger batches when he hears a soft exclamation, a pained cry perhaps, then he hears another.

Having had plenty of nightmares in the past, Ed is uniquely qualified to determine that Nora is having one from across the lab, and he rockets into autopilot, limping across the space and taking a moment to sit in a nearby chair before touching her arm, just once, but it's enough to startle her awake, shallow breaths slowly calming as she takes in her surroundings.

“I could call Lee over,” Ed offers. “Although most people are upstairs, if you'd rather not be alone.”

“It was just a dream,” she says, and Ed nods in confirmation. “You're Ed.”

“Yes. We met a few days ago.” Lee stressed the importance of reiteration for Nora's recovery. Well, Ed's nothing if not thorough. “You were thawed because we found a treatment for your condition.”

“Because Victor wanted it,” she says. She tries sitting up a bit and can't, but with little aid Ed manages to get a second pillow behind her back. “And I'm in a cave.”

“Essentially.”

“Under a rich man's mansion,” she laughs, “because he fights crime, dressed like a bat.”

“You really have been frozen for fifteen years,” Ed chuckles. “That is most definitely _not_ the strangest thing that's happened to Gotham.”

“Is Victor?” she asks, face tired but concerned. “Bruce told me he's different, that he's unable to live outside freezing temperatures.”

“No, no I think his condition is still rather tame. But that isn't a concern for you, unless you're bored and would like some reading material.”

“Maybe in a few weeks. For now some sunlight might be nice,” she says quietly. Her eyelids are drooping. “It's been a long time since I've seen the sun.”

“I'm not a doctor,” he admits. “You'll have to ask her about moving you upstairs. Possibly, as long as you're no longer in need of supplemental oxygen, you could move tomorrow. Although that might be presumptuous. In any case it can't hurt to be prepared. Do you prefer an East or West window?”

Nora's already fallen back to sleep when he looks up. Ed sits by the bed for a few more moments, then moves back over to his bench to work.

-

Ed's recorder is in his hand, finger poised over the button, but Lee coughs once to get Ed's attention, and he rests his arm against his leg. “Ed we talked about recording yourself.”

“I like to make notes.”

“I know, but we're just here to talk, not record. Overanalyzing what you say here isn't the point. The point is to say what you think needs to be said, and try to work through what you're feeling.”

Ed slides his recorder into his pocket and runs his thumb over the record button, then he pulls his hand free to resist the temptation. “My thoughts are disorganized.”

“A lot has changed recently. There's nothing wrong with being a little scatterbrained.” Lee takes a drink from her mug, stirring up the liquid with her tea bag before taking a second sip. “At the very least you shouldn't be concerned, unless there's more to it.”

“There isn't, not anything symptomatic. It's just, someone's life relies on me _not_ being this way.” Ed flexes his fingers, popping a few stiff joints before folding his hands into his lap.

“It's been awhile since that was the case.”

“Nearly a year.” And figuring out what happened to Bruce wasn't _hard_. It was Ed's case that got him into trouble in the first place. “And it was very different. She doesn't know,” Ed bites his lip, “me,” he settles on. “She doesn't know me.”

“It's an interesting situation. Nora only knows what we've told her from the past fifteen years. She thinks you're a scientist just trying to help. To her there is no Riddler.”

Ed shifts on the couch in the reading room so his legs are stretched across the cushions and his head is pillowed against the armrest. “She'll find out about that particular aspect about myself eventually.”

“No one's forcing you to disclose your past to her. And you aren't the same person you were.”

“I've killed people,” he tells the ceiling.

Lee still responds regardless. “Yes, but you've made more progress than I ever imagined you were capable of.”

“I don't think my therapist should carry around that kind of bias,” Ed teases, but also not. He feels a prickling of anxiety waiting for her response.

“You spent the first ten minutes of our first session insisting therapy was nonsense. And five of the second. Therapy puts you in a vulnerable place, and I know being vulnerable has caused you a lot of pain in the past. It's easier to pretend it won't do anything than let it open you up to potential harm.” Lee smiles briefly. “Lying on your back might make the feeling worse, if you're reading into the situation a little too deeply.”

“I was under the impression that this is what you're _supposed_ to do.”

“You watch too much TV. I want you to be comfortable, especially if you're trying to open up.” Lee sits up straighter. “You weren't comfortable enough to tell people about your problems back at the GCPD and I think that's something that led you down the path you took.”

“My problems were minor. Not fitting in, lack of confidence, mere personal flaws.”

“I'm talking about the abuse Ed.”

He closes his eyes and breathes out of his nose. “You read the Arkham file.”

“You told me to.”

“I didn't think anyone bothered to write down what I said.” He rubs a hand over his mouth, ignoring the urge to sit up. He's afraid he'll try to gain the upper hand if he does. It's easy to get out of therapy when they have to drag you from the room.

“It was brief. You didn't bring it up more than a handful of times, and half of the mentions were vague.” Lee's smiling, at him when he works up the courage to look over, but she also looks sad, sympathetic, and he feels a prickling sensation at the corner of his eyes. “You haven't told very many people.”

“Oswald,” _of course_ , he thinks, “and Jim.”

“You told Jim?”

“He was beginning to trust us,” Ed explains. “We we're working together, tentatively. I was,” he sighs, “reaching out, I suppose. Returning the trust he was giving me.” He closes his eyes. Sessions with Lee always seem to make him tired.

“Are you ready to be done?”

“It's barely been fifteen minutes.”

“Twenty. And we're already doing things a bit different from the norm.”

“Because you know me.”

“Because I know you can be a good person.” She isn't insisting, she thinks she's stating a fact. Ed is, somehow or in some way, capable of either fooling or convincing Lee that he isn't truly rotten to the core. She might be clinging to old, wibbly Ed Nygma of the GCPD, but he hopes she's a better therapist than that. “Before I get down to Nora, last time you told me you haven't told Oswald about us.”

“It isn't some torrid affair,” Ed scoffs, watching Lee told her arms over her chest. “It's personal.”

“You two are _married._ You don't have to share everything but the fact that you're seeking unconventional therapy sessions from me might be worth mentioning. He deserves to know you're making an effort to take care of yourself. I think it would make him happy.”

 _He won't see it that way,_ Ed thinks. But he's tired, so he nods in agreement and closes his eyes again.

-

“June 5th, cleaning complete,” he says as he fills out a log he's set up for the production equipment he uses for the medication. “Personal supply is at sixty percent of ideal. Consider mentioning to Bruce that we should get a second small setup prepared in case cleaning is not completed in a timely manner.”

He's just attaching the separation funnel to its holder above a beaker when he hears soft, shuffling feet and the quiet constant sound of wheels against a floor. He turns and sees Nora, face a bit pale but not strained, and her small canister of air. Ed smiles once and turns back to his work, assuming she'll continue along.

“Have you ever tried to help Victor?”

“What?” Ed turns away again, and watches as Nora pulls a stool closer and sits by the bench. “I'm not sure what you mean.”

“His condition. He can't survive in the heat, right? That's what Bruce told me. I wanted to know if you've tried to help, or if anyone else has.” She folds her hands in her lap and watches Ed with a calm patience he isn't used to having extended his way.

“No, I have not. Nor has anyone else,” he explains as he also sits. “It's my understanding that his condition is permanent. There isn't anything that can be done except for improving his personal cooling systems.” He gestures to the equipment. “This is actually for your treatment, which appears to be working.”

“Lee told me I should try to walk around a little.” She settles in as comfortably as possible considering she's sitting on an unbacked stool. “It feels good to walk again, but also very tiring.”

Ed glances at the cane he left resting against the far end of the bench. It suddenly feels too far, like he's miscalculated his reach. Or maybe the sudden flare up of discomfort in his leg is a phantom pain. He watches Nora as she leans in a bit closer to look at the different vials and reagents.

“Science has changed so much.”

“It's only been fifteen years,” Ed says, then he glances over again, uncertain if her previous state of matter is off limits. She doesn't appear phased by the mention of her lost time.

“I mean with medicine,” she indicates her air tank, “and the treatment. I know what the placebo effect is, but I really do feel better than I remember. I don't know how to thank you.”

 _Stop making me feel like an imposter_ , he thinks. What he says is, “I need to finish preparing this.” He points to the separation funnel. She appears interested, so he explains. “It's used to separate liquids by-”

“Density. I remember,” she says, smiling a little.

“You're a scientist?”

“No, but sometimes I would watch Victor work.” She closes her eyes and smiles as she talks. “He liked to explain what he was doing while he did his experiments. I learned a lot from him.”

Ed quirks up one side of his mouth and stands up from his stool. “I’m going to start a new batch of your treatment if you want to stay.”

She nods, and Ed busies himself with his work, talking through his processes and pouring out liquids. He's just begun heating the solvent when he hears a grumble from behind him, and the overtired, sleepy exclamations of Oswald.

“Ed, Ed I distinctly remember telling you to not let me sleep,” Oswald says through a yawn. Ed turns around fully to watch his face as he grimaces, lips smacking and eyes still mostly closed. “Ed I can tell when you're ignoring me.”

“I'll be right back,” he tells Nora. “If you could watch this the target temperature is 180.”

“Sure,” she nods. “Should I wear goggles or gloves?”

“Only if you touch things.” Ed pulls off his gloves and goggles and sets them aside on the bench before he reaches over and grabs his cane. Ed launches himself off the stool and lands on his good leg. He strides over to Oswald and sits just as his eyes open more than halfway. “Hello.”

“You let me sleep,” Oswald yawns at the end, settling down on the back of the couch in a slump. “You're a traitor.”

“I was preoccupied. And I kept talking to you like you asked.”

“About _science_ , Ed. You don't play fair. It's two in the morning-”

“Three, actually.”

“You let me sleep for an hour?” he shrieks. Ed glances over to the bench and Nora, but she appears to be minding her own business. Oswald turns around to see what Ed's looking at and his face softens. “Oh. That _is_ Nora unless I'm mistaken?”

“Have you not been introduced?”

“This is the first time I've been down here in at least a week.” Oswald turns his attention back to Ed. “Are you done down here yet? You told me you only wanted to tire yourself out. If I'd known you were going to get motivated I would have made you read something in bed with me.”

“I’m afraid I've gotten a second wind,” he says, smiling sheepishly and patting Oswald on the arm when he groans. “You should sleep in bed.”

“ _You_ should _sleep_.” Oswald yawns. “Preferably with me, although I suppose I'll accept any sleep you get at this point.”

Ed considers following Oswald upstairs to appease him, but he knows he won't be able to fall asleep even if he tries. He kisses him on the forehead and offers up a blanket from the end of the couch as a peace offering. “You're welcome to wait for me down here, although we both know you sleep better in an actual bed.”

Oswald's eyes are drooping, and he accepts Ed's gift, draping it over his legs and situating himself comfortably in a mostly upright position. “One more hour and that's _it_. Then you're coming to bed with me.”

“Deal. I only need to finish dissolving my solute, then there's an incubation period that only needs to be a couple hours, by can go longer.” He watches Oswald's eyes flutter valiantly before the time and his tiredness take over, and he's snoring softly. “Rest easy.”

Ed returns to the bench and smiles briefly at Nora. “All's well?”

“It's at 140 degrees Celsius,” she indicates. “I don't think I've met him.”

“Oswald?” Ed glances back to the couch. “I doubt you have. His expertise is business related.” Ed turns his hot plate up a tiny bit and sits back, pulling on his gloves and positioning his goggles on his forehead. “He doesn't like it down here very much, admittedly. Lack of light and things to hold his attention.”

“Sunlight would be nice,” Nora agrees. “He's your partner?”

“Husband,” Ed corrects, then he pauses, mouth hanging open a bit. “Crap, that is somewhat privileged information.”

“I don't have anyone to tell.” Nora coughs into her hands a few times, and Ed pauses long enough to watch her hide a couple specks of blood in the palm of one of her hands. “The coughing used to be much worse,” she says. “I guess something is working.”

“That's good.”

Ed swirls the beaker a couple times to break up a small chunk of solute at the bottom and watches as the liquid runs clear again. Nora's quiet beside him, watching him work as he slowly cools the liquid and pours it into a flask, topping it off with a rubber stopper. He's mostly on autopilot at this point. He's done this procedure so many times already that he's certain even someone without an eidetic memory would have it down. He closes his eyes for a moment anyway, recalling his notes and mouthing a few of the key words out.

“I started reading those files you gave me.”

“I'm sure that's an entertaining use of your time.”

“It's awful. I had to stop. So many deaths, explosions. Gotham has changed so much.” Ed grinds his teeth a few times to keep his mouth shut until he can properly hold in his outburst. “How can anyone do that to another person?”

“What?” Ed's eyes snap open and he drops the flask into the counter, swearing when it doesn't break but the stopper does fly off, sending some of the solvent into the bench top and sending him back to step one. “Oh crap, please keep clear. It stains.”

“I didn't mean to upset you.”

“It's nothing, just clumsy.” He begins cleaning up the solvent and sighs. “What files were you reading exactly?”

“The Joker.” Nora makes an uncomfortable looking face and scratches under her nasal cannula. “A few others. I was working my way down your list, but I think I might stop.” She chews on her lip. “I'm a little worried about what Victor's might say.”

“It's certainly your choice,” Ed says, clearing his throat awkwardly and standing. “It's late. You should be asleep.” He tosses his goggles onto a nearby surface and throws his gloves away before speeding over to Oswald, calling back a quick “good night” before he shakes Oswald awake so they can retreat upstairs.


	17. Chapter 17

_May 27th, Wayne Manor, mid morning_

There's a certain calm, a sense of strange peace, when he accepts the command from Selina. His sense of self drains into a space at his core, settled there for safekeeping until he's called forth. Somewhere just outside his awareness there’s a pair of people, fleeting images of familiar faces cross his vision.

He waits patiently, hearing the quiet sound of his own breath, and the steady lubdub beating somewhere near his temples.

“Please stand back, Miss Kyle.”

Bruce’s finger twitches. He watches her, sighing, waiting. Any second she’ll give him direction. A directive, a task, _something_.

But she won’t turn back around. Why won’t she turn around?

“Take a breath, Master B. This isn’t exactly going to tickle.”

The last thing Bruce sees before the muscle quakes make his eyes roll back in his head is Selina’s bouncy hair as she rounds a corner.

He blinks several times, flexing his fingers and toes once the feeling returns to his limbs. “That’s never going to be a pleasant experience is it.”

“Can’t imagine that ever being the case, sir.” Alfred helps Bruce sit up on the gurney and hands him a half full glass of water. “Do your best to maintain a good grip.”

“Thank you,” he spills a good portion on himself but he doesn’t drop the glass, a good sign for his shock-based recovery.

“Well?” Bruce looks up from his wet shirt at Alfred. “What’s the verdict then?”

Bruce takes a few breaths and looks around in the small nook they wheeled the gurney. He gets up off the bed and touches one of the rough rock walls, actually _forcing_ himself to find a comparison between the uneven, craggy surface and the brick buildings in the alley. His memories are vague, filled with smelly, damp surfaces and nonspecific, almost black and white colors because of the low light. The blinding, oversaturated technicolor has faded back to his distant memory.

He stumbles back to the gurney and makes himself lie down, and he reassures Alfred’s worry with a quiet, “it worked.” Bruce closes his eyes. “Alfred I’d love to discuss the details of this success but I’m feeling rather exhausted.”

“I take it you’re planning on sleeping in the lab,” Alfred says, pulling a sheet up over Bruce’s shoulders and dimming the lighting in the wing. “If you’re feeling inclined once you wake up I’m sure Miss Thompkins will want to speak with you to reassure everyone that this development is permanent, but I’m also sure it can wait a few hours. Sleep well, Master B.”

He nods, mentally preparing himself for some genuinely restful sleep. He can't remember what that feels like without a bit of effort but he tells himself over and over that the storm has passed, he's won a significant battle today, and he only needs to sleep to cement his victory.

But he can't.

Maybe it's worry, or just _maybe_ he's too wired to sleep, too excited to be able to finally _think_ again. He can put his focus on Victor, on Nora's recovery and treatment, on _anything_ that isn't drenched in memories and pain, and it's very tempting to just force himself to remain awake so he can brainstorm with Ed or Jim. His possibilities feel endless.

He also knows he's going to end up doing something reckless if he doesn't get some sleep now. It wouldn't be the first time he's made a foolish decision due to a lack of sleep.

It's the bed, he settles on. The narrow size and too short length. He needs a real bed. _His bed_. The one that might also have Selina there.

Bruce sits up and lets the sheet pool around his waist. No one is near enough to question why he's up and about still, and the walk upstairs will take minutes at most. He slides off the gurney and begins walking to the stairs and then up into his study, pausing only briefly to look up at the family portrait with a small smile. He thinks of camping, of pleasant sights and smells, and Bruce takes in a deep, cleansing breath before letting it out slowly.

“I'd rather remember the times we had,” he tells them, and Bruce continues down the hall to his bedroom.

Selina's there like he hoped, but she isn't asleep. She regards Bruce with a cool expression, watching as he quietly shuts the door behind him and smiles. “Good morning.”

“Thought Alfred said you were sleeping downstairs.”

“I didn't fit.” He shrugs. “There wasn't much sense trying when my bed is bigger.”

“Big enough for you and your ego,” she jokes. “Don't let me stop you.” She pulls off her overshirt and moves towards his bathroom. “I'm stealing all your hot water.”

“You've slept enough?”

“More or less,” she shrugs. He watches her turn on the shower and pull off the rest of her clothes, but she tells him off before he can even consider getting in with her. “You’re not coming in here with me just so you can pass out and crack your head open.”

“You won't allow it?” He steps back off the tile and watches from the carpet. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Uh, sleep, duh,” she rolls her eyes and closes the shower stall door. “Thought that's what you were up here for.”

“Just checking,” he says. Bruce moves over to his bed and slips in under the covers, stretching out and claiming most of the space. His eyelids start drooping the moment his head lands on a pillow. “Goodnight,” he calls out to her.

“Go to sleep already so I can poke through your stuff.”

Bruce smiles to himself and closes his eyes.

-

_May 29th, Wayne Manor, midday_

Bruce emerges from his bedroom alone, feeling groggy and sore, but also feeling cleansed. His sleep was dreamless, thoughts untethered by haunting memories, and he's feeling more like his old self now that he can think properly.

“Alfred, I'm sorry I slept so long,” he says as he enters the kitchen. Alfred is already walking over with some water and a plate of food, leftovers possibly, or maybe he misread the clock as he left his room. “What day is it?”

“You slept nearly forty-eight hours, Master B. We had Miss Thompkins check your vitals around midday yesterday, but she said to just wait. Quite impressive.”

He sits at the table with his drink and food. “I didn't mean to worry you.”

“I’d rather see you oversleep than not be able to at all, but don't think this means no one's worried. You're to talk with Miss Thompkins about all this, and don't go telling me you don't need a therapeutic touch after this ordeal. You spent over a week suffering from emotional torture, designed specifically to break you and send you running after the person that caused this in the first place.” He clasps a hand on Bruce's shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “But you persevered, and you found a solution we can all live with sir. I'll give you that much credit.”

“I'm not allowed to feel relieved? Compared to before I feel amazing, like I'm actually capable of being a person.” He begins eating reheated hash browns and eggs, not realizing how hungry he feels until the first bite reaches his stomach. Alfred watches until Bruce wills himself to take a break from his meal. “I feel victorious. Like I've finally found a way to beat Strange at his own game.”

“Don't eat too fast unless you want to upset your stomach,” Alfred tells him. “And go talk to Miss Thompkins once you're done.”

“I will. Have you seen Selina?”

“She's running errands,” he says, and he leaves before Bruce can ask him to elaborate.

Bruce isn't sure where Lee is, or if she's even at the Manor, so he calls her after he's done eating, and based on her amused chuckle he assumes she's somewhat nearby. “You're still at the Manor aren't you.”

“I'm in the lab. You should come down here.” She says something inaudible to someone nearby. “We have some good news.”

“I'll be right down.” He hangs up and cracks his back once he's standing, and he hurries across the Manor to his study. Maybe it's a new scan, something more tangible. Or maybe she's doing one now, and Bruce's timing is just that impeccable today. He hurries down the stairs and into the open space, walking through the lab until he finds Lee and Jim sitting on hairs next to Nora's hospital bed, and, oh, “I didn't know you were awake.”

“Nora, this is Bruce Wayne,” Lee says.

“Nice to meet you,” Bruce says, offering a hand, which she shakes weakly. “Sorry to take so long before meeting you, but I’m afraid I was sleeping for the last two days. I wish that was exaggeration.”

“It’s all I’ve done too,” Nora says.

“Welcome back to the living," Jim tells Bruce, clapping his hand on Bruce's shoulder as he offers up his stool. “I'm going up for coffee. Want anything?”

“I feel well rested,” Bruce replies.

“Sure hope so,” Jim shakes his head. “Glad to have you back.”

Bruce nods to Jim and sits in the stool, giving Nora his full attention. “I don't want to assume anything so I'll just ask, what have you already been told?”

“I'm in your home, or I guess below it,” Nora says. She looks to Lee and back to Bruce. “And I know I need to thank you.”

“Victor asked for my help,” Bruce explains, “and I want to do that any way I can. Have you started the treatment?”

“She's on dose three already,” Lee says. “She says it tastes terrible.”

Bruce chuckles. “I've found most good things do, at last to some extent.” Nora nods. “You don't feel worse, I hope.”

“No,” she shakes her head. “I don't know if I feel better yet either.”

“It's very early. No change is better than a negative, at least that's my educated guess.”

“I agree with him,” Lee says to Nora, but Bruce still feels relieved. “Right now I’d rather see you stay the same than decline.”

“I would like to be able to stay awake a little longer,” Nora says, smiling a bit shyly.

“Give it time,” Lee says. “No one’s demanding anything of you except to take it easy.”

“I’ll do my best, then,” she says. “Thank you for all your help, both of you.”

“We’re happy to help.” Bruce says. “Do you have any questions? About anything,” he clarifies.

Nora looks around the lab, and at Lee and Bruce, and she shakes her head. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“You haven’t asked about Victor,” Bruce hazards.

“I know he isn’t here,” Nora says.

Bruce looks to Lee, who nods at him, a silent go ahead, assuming she understands his hesitation. He takes a moment to collect his thoughts and begins. “The more active you become, the more you’ll want to catch up with what you’ve missed. Currently, you might find the news rather upsetting. I want to reassure you in some way, but you need to understand that Victor hasn’t always followed a just path in his pursuit of your treatment. A few years ago he contacted me, and we reached an agreement. Recently he broke that agreement, but not of his free will. Someone is controlling him, and he’s fighting against the control, but not enough to break free. However he was able to alert us to your presence so we could help and protect you.”

Nora reaches for Lee’s hand and Lee lets her hold on tightly, offering up some physical support. She asks, “what has he done?”

“There was an attack on the company responsible for developing your treatment. He was not in control at the time, but he’s being painted in a very negative light in the news because of his actions.” Bruce sighs quietly. “I didn’t want you to find out on accident, or by anyone that doesn’t know what he’s currently going through. The attack was rather devastating.”

“Does he belong in prison?”

“He belongs in Arkham,” Bruce corrects her. “He’s not well, Nora. His obsession has nearly killed him, and has cost people their lives.”

“Everything he’s done has been for you,” Lee says. Nora turns to her, eyes welling up with tears. “I know that’s difficult to hear.”

“I saw what it was doing to him,” she whispers. “Back then, I knew it would hurt him, but I wanted him to move on.”

“I know. Gotham has a strange way of ruining our best intentions.” Lee offers Nora a tissue from a nearby rolling tray and Nora wipes at her eyes. “Someone brought you back.”

“Strange,” Bruce elaborates. “Dr. Strange. He’s a scientist, but he’s also a monster. He might have brought you back on Victor’s request, or maybe to ensure control over him. I’m merely speculating.” Bruce also sees the worry lines on Lee’s forehead, and assumes this conversation should stop soon for the sake of Nora’s health. “Now that you’re safe we’re going to work on rescuing him. Your only task is to rest.”

“Why are you helping him?” Nora asks. “If he’s done all these awful things, what do you have to gain?”

“I’m helping because he asked,” Bruce says. “And because I’ve taken it upon myself to help the people of Gotham, including people like your husband.” Bruce considers his options, and he nods to himself, still confident in his decision. “What I’m going to tell you is something not many people know, but I feel I can trust you to keep this information to the small group of people here.” He takes a breath. “The reason I’m doing all of this, why I have this lab, is because I’ve been fighting crime in the city of Gotham for the last ten years at the Batman.”

-

“I think I overwhelmed her.”

“I think telling her _anything_ about Gotham was bound to overwhelm her.” Lee smiles a bit fondly. “You can’t honestly believe she wouldn’t laugh about a grown man running around dressed as a bat, Bruce.”

“I may have gotten used to the amount of unusual characters in the city.” Bruce settles into a chair near the fireplace and rests his head against the tall back. “I’d much prefer she get overwhelmed with laughter, in any case, even at my expense.”

“You’re really taking one for the team.”

“What’re you doing now?” Jim asks. He hands over a mug of coffee to Lee and joins her on the couch. “I feel like I missed something.”

“Nora laughed at Bruce for being Batman.”

“Ah,” Jim nods, as if this is something _everyone else_ expected. Bruce supposes they probably did. “Yeah that sounds familiar. Still can’t believe it myself some days.”

“It’s been ten years,” Bruce says, incredulous.

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t _wild_ ,” Jim says. “I’d love to sit around enjoying coffee with everyone but some of us actually have to work around here.”

“Our hero,” Lee deadpans. Jim smiles her and hesitates for a moment, then he gets a defiant look on his face and kisses her cheek. He waves to Bruce before getting up from the couch again and leaving the room in a hurry.

“That’s a recent development,” Bruce says. Lee shakes her head. “It isn’t?”

“No, it is,” she agrees. “Don’t give him too much hell about keeping things quiet.”

“I’ve kept plenty quiet over the years.” Bruce wishes he had a mug to hold. His fingers are feeling a bit fidgety. “As you’re aware.”

Lee nods. “How are you feeling Bruce?”

“Truthfully? I haven’t felt quite this good in awhile.”

“That’s to be expected, at least at first. There’s a sense of relief, now that you’re free of Strange’s torture.” Lee gets a very concerned look on her face. “I don’t want to discourage you when you’re feeling this way, but you need to remember that this won’t last forever.”

“Logically, yes, I understand.” Bruce folds his hands together and leans forward in his chair. “But I know how I feel. I was able to sleep without nightmares. I feel like a _person_ again.”

“Bruce you didn’t sleep for a full week except for a handful of hours here and there. And I’m not trying to tell you how to feel. You deserve to feel happy right now, but I don’t want you to get discouraged if you still feel depressed. What Strange did to you was sick, and twisted. He made you relive the same memories non-stop for _days._ You don’t have to act strong. Surviving something like that already took so much strength.”

Bruce bites his lip and nods. He stretches out his back, and thinks. He feels good. He _should_ feel good. Strange’s power took several blows in a short amount of time, and Bruce is once again capable of contributing to the fight against him.

And yet, he feels a prickling behind his eyes, a sting that’s just developed, or maybe it’s been there all morning, and he’s just now acknowledged its presence. “I should be happy.”

“Nothing’s quite that simple. You said it yourself you didn’t feel like a person when you couldn’t think of anything but your memories. Seeing them with such clarity, with that much strength, it’s not unreasonable to think you might undergo another grieving process of sorts.”

Bruce nods. “When I think of that night now, the memory is blurry, indistinct. It’s been that way for awhile now, but not when Strange,” Bruce huffs, “not when I was seeing them all the time. They were sharper than they’ve ever been. I’ve never killed, but after what he’s done, sometimes I think I will if I see him again. I don’t want to do that, Lee.”

“I don’t want you to either,” she says quietly. “And I’m not saying you should distract yourself from what you’re feeling, but I think you would benefit from a project or two to help channel some of the hurt and anger you feel now that you’re free of him. Why don’t you take a couple days to find something you’d like to accomplish. And if you ever feel like you need to talk this through, remember to call me.”

-

Bruce takes another mental health day away from the office, but he uses the time to read emails at home in his study, one leg constantly bouncing because of his shaking knee. He knows he can focus, but he doesn't _want_ to, not when he could just go back to sleep and take some time to just exist without anything demanding his attention.

And he wants to see Selina, to thank her again and show her some appreciation, but she never returned to the Manor last night, and she's still “running errands” today, whatever that means this time. Bruce assumes she's unloading her inventory. It's getting harder to hide her pregnancy now that she's nearing three months along. Or maybe it won't matter in her line of work. Bruce never asked; he wants to now though.

So he ignores the rest of his cluttered inbox and calls her. His leg bounces higher with each ring, but then she picks up, and he sighs. “Sorry if you're busy.”

“I'm not,” she says. “Not right this second anyway.”

“I needed to thank you again,” he begins. “Not just for using the phrase, but also just being around. It helped.”

“Is this your way of asking me to come over?” He can hear some mewling in the background and the ceramic tinking of food going into a bowl. “Because I lied. Kinda busy feeding a few ingrates.”

“I need direction,” he says.

“Oh-kay?” She whispers a few endearing terms to her cats, and Bruce strains to hear her. Something about being assholes, he isn't certain about the rest. “So you called because?”

“I'm asking for direction. Something to occupy my time. Lee thinks I'm grieving,” he sighs, “and I think she's right.”

“So you want a distraction.”

“Or a project. Anything.” He takes a shaky breath. “Please.”

“I don't know, did you eat? If not, go eat.”

He sighs. “Thank you, no, I have not.”

“Couldn't figure out that one on your own?” He can practically hear her eyes rolling over the phone. “Weirdo. If you want me to come over just say so.”

“Only if you want,” he says. “I'm going to eat.”

“Tell Alfred to start stocking more milk,” she demands. He nods even though she can't see him. “Been drinking it like _crazy_.”

“I'll do that,” he agrees. She hangs up on him and Bruce gets up from his desk to go complete his tasks.

-

“I could always go into the office,” Bruce says. He throws a few punches at his punching bag and looks over to Selina to gauge her reaction.

“You could,” she says, focusing more on something she's reading than Bruce's workout.

“Or maybe I could patrol. It's been awhile, and I may find signs of where Victor is hiding out.” He grabs a towel and wipes his forehead. “The GCPD hasn't seen him anywhere.”

“Bet they'd love seeing their bat boy running around again,” she says, tipping her head to one side and sending an unamused look Bruce's way. “You really think patrol is a good idea right now?”

“Perhaps I'll give myself a few more days,” he says. Bruce grabs a water bottle and crosses the gym floor, settling into a chair backwards with his arms on the back. “Or I could get you something,” he offers, and she boggles at him. “If the something you need, I can go and-”

“What are you doing?”

Bruce blinks. “I'm offering to get you something.”

“No, I mean why are you asking me that?” Selina sets aside her notebook on a nearby table. “Why do you keep asking me what to do?”

“I value your opinion,” Bruce says.

“Yeah, about _plans_ , and, I don't know, _other_ stuff, not if you should work out or get me shit. If I want you to get me shit I'd tell you.” She shakes her head. “There's something wrong with you.”

“Because I'm asking your opinion?”

“Because you want me to tell you what to do!” she shouts. “You're acting like you can't do _anything_ in your own.” She groans. “Is this because I said that thing? You told me it would work, Bruce. That you'd be back in control and things would go back to normal. Instead you're acting like you can't _breathe_ without my say so, and it's creepy and weird.” Bruce blinks away some of the stinging around his eyes, and he somewhat shocked to feel actual tears on his cheeks.  “Something didn't _work_ , but I guess you'd have to be the real _you_ to see that.”

He blinks again, breathing harsh in his ears. He struggles to come up  I with something, anything to refute her claim, but he _can't_. “What do I do?” he whispers.

“I don't know, but I can't _tell_ you, okay? I'm not a therapist, and I can't be responsible for the both of us.” Selina stands up and grabs one of the free towels from a small shelf. “I'm going to shower.”

“Selina,” Bruce calls after her, but she keeps walking. “Selina!”

She doesn't turn back, and Bruce gets up off the chair. He stands in the middle of the room and looks at the weight set, the punching bag, but he can't get his body to do anything more that remain upright. He feels frozen in place, and the longer he stands still the more terrifying it feels, until his breath is shallow and choppy and no other sound makes it to his ears.

“..uce, Bruce,” Alfred is there suddenly, talking to him, holding his arms and guiding him to a chair. “That's it, slow your breathing. There we are.”

Bruce swallows around a lump in his throat, and hot tears stream down his face when he remembers to blink. “Something's wrong.”

“I know, take a few deep breaths if you're able Master B. That's it, a few more,” he keeps talking and reiterating while Bruce does his damnedest to keep breathing and not pass out. Eventually, with Alfred's aid, he's breathing normally, if not a bit labored from the lump of emotions caught in his throat. “Now, what brought this on?”

“I don't know,” he whines. “Selina, I, something didn't _work_. I miscalculated and I don't know what to do. Alfred-”

“Bruce,” he says, he manages to stop Bruce's spiral in its tracks with a firm hand on his shoulder. “Take another breath, come on,” he coaxes Bruce into calming back down, sending his concerns back just below the surface. “Now how about you just sit tight. I'll get Miss Thompkins down here to help sort this all out.”

“Ed,” Bruce blurts out. “And Ed, he, Ed has insight.”

“Yes alright,” Alfred agrees, or maybe humors him. “Told myself I'd never call someone when they're in the same bloody house, Miss Thompkins? Ah, good, I was hoping you and Mister Nygma could join Bruce and I down in the lab. I'll explain once everyone's here.”

Bruce closes his eyes and takes a few more measured breaths, counting to eight and back down, and by the time he hears footsteps he's breathing doesn't sound quite so loud in his ears. Lee pulls two chairs over to Bruce’s so she and Ed can sit. “Tell me what’s going on, Bruce.”

“Something was incomplete when we used the control phrase,” he explains. Calmly, he thought, but Lee reaches out a hand and he squeezes it tightly, his breathing becoming harsh and painful in his chest. “We thought, I thought it worked, it did work.” He takes a few breaths and focuses on Lee’s face, and the calm she’s trying to impart to him. “But I, I can’t-”

“Bruce, focus on me. You’re having a panic attack. I know you’re feeling scared right now, but you will be okay.” She offers up her other hand, but Bruce keeps his free hand near his sternum, feeling the rapid lubdublubdub of his heart racing out of his chest. “You don’t have to explain anything if you don’t want to, and we’ll sit here with you as long as you need.”

Bruce glances to Ed, watching the nervous, shaky nods of his head as he agrees with Lee. Alfred is standing behind them, one hand on Ed’s chair and the other comfortably situated in his coat pocket. No one’s attempting to dial emergency services, or checking his vitals. “I’m not panicking,” he says. “I can’t do anything.”

Lee pats his hand with hers and leans in a little. “Bruce don’t make me play the medical professional card.”

“No, this is why I should explain, see,” he huffs a few breaths and takes in one deep, shuddering one, and he feels the calm starting to seep into his peripheral senses. “Selina can explain. But it’s, there’s been some sort of mix up after using the phrase. Maybe because she was willing, or no, because I _wanted_ her to. I can’t stop looking to her for guidance, or concrete directives.”

“You think the shock wasn’t sufficient,” Ed says, and Bruce nods. “Intent is a very strong factor-”

“Ed, please.” Lee reaches over and touches his arm. “Let me take the lead on this one.”

Ed glowers at her. “But if the phrase-”

“He’s going to be _fine_.” Lee turns back to Bruce and makes him look at just her again, tapping the back of his hand with one finger in a steady beat. “Focus on this for me.” Then she slows her tapping down a little. “Now try to breathe along with it. In. Out.”

He watches Lee’s hand as it moves, taking a breath in when it taps, then out with the next. She slows it further, until he feels like he’s nearly holding his breath each time she taps. When she takes her finger away Bruce finds himself imagining the taps, and still trying to match his breathing with it.

“How did you do that?” he asks.

Lee smiles at him. “Practice.”

“Here, sir,” Alfred comes over with a light jacket held out, and Bruce releases Lee’s hand long enough to slip it on and zip it up before reaching for her hand again. He feels a light flush on his face from embarrassment but no one acknowledges his actions. “Feeling any better?”

“Much,” he says. “Where’s Selina?”

“Upstairs,” Lee says, “but we’re going to talk first okay?”

“About the error,” Bruce says, nodding. “Right. Well, I think I’m still partially under Selina’s control.”

“Perhaps the shock was insufficient,” Ed mutters. “Maybe the location of the shock bares importance.”

Lee looks to Ed and Alfred, and she asks, “could the two of you get Bruce some water upstairs?”

Alfred nods and agrees, “of course Miss Thompkins,” and he’s already turned away from the group. “Coming Mister Nygma?”

“There’s a tap across the-” he stops abruptly when he looks at Lee, who’s giving him a very distinct _look_ , and he nods. “Of course, right. I’ll be right there,” he calls to Alfred. He smiles and nods to Bruce before getting up from his chair and leaving.

“That wasn’t very subtle of me,” Lee chuckles. “Bruce I think we need to have a talk.”

“About potential options moving forward?”

“Something like that,” she agrees, shifting close again and taking Bruce’s other hand. This time he doesn’t protest and gives them both a soft squeeze. “Bruce has anyone ever talked to you about regression?”

-

_June 5th, night_

He stands a bit stiffly, hands no longer used to the resistance in his suit’s gloves, but it feels good to be out in Gotham again, like coming back home, and Bruce paces the rooftop near the Narrows while he waits. Lee told him he needs a goal designed for himself, a task he can dedicate his focus on while he processes Strange’s cascade, and after a day of moping alone in his room he’s come up with one he’s rather pleased with.

Richard appears right on time, hands reaching up over the stone wall around the roof and his bright, expressive face already lit up when he sees Bruce fully clad in his armor and cowl. He’s breathing a bit labored from his run, but it doesn’t stop him from bouncing on his heels once he’s on the roof.

“I _knew_ you’d be back out,” he says. “Does this mean you’re better?”

“It means I’m well on my way to being better,” he says, and he feels like it’s true. Conviction is an important part of his recovery. “The Commissioner tells me you helped find Nora Fries and I need to thank you, and remind you that you shouldn’t be climbing into potentially dangerous buildings.”

“I _knew_ I was in trouble,” Richard grumbles. “ I was already grounded! My dad caught me coming back in through the window!”

“I’m not going to lecture you,” Bruce says, “but I’ve concluded that there is a certain inevitability to you ending up in some sort of danger, and I would have some more peace of mind if you knew how to defend yourself.” Bruce kneels so he’s looking Richard right in the eye if he wasn’t wearing his goggles. “Which is why I’m going to offer to teach you self defense.”

Richard gasps, and his smile lights up his entire face. “You mean it? Holy cow, that is _so_ cool! I’m going to learn to fight from _the_ Batman?”

“You’re going to learn self defense,” Bruce corrects him. “I take it you accept?”

“Yes! I won’t let you down!” Richard reaches out a hand and Bruce shakes it, chuckling a bit at the excitement practically pouring off Richard. It’s infectious. “When do we start? Right now?”

“Soon, when you’re not needed at home.” Bruce stands up straight again. “This is going to be a grueling, difficult process. I understand if you decide to back out, and you’re welcome to at any time.”

“Back out? Are you kidding? Oh man, holy shi-sorry! I didn’t mean to!” Richard takes a few breaths. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep!”

“Do your best,” Bruce says, feeling a sense of pride he’s not going to label premature. He can already tell this will be a satisfying use of his time. “That’s all I ask of you.”


	18. Chapter 18

“What would you consider age-appropriate self defense for a fifteen year old?”

Ed sets down his book and slowly turns his head towards Bruce, blinking a few times to clear away the slight reading haze as he attempts to parse out his meaning. He settles on a question instead. “I take it you’re feeling a bit better?”

Bruce nods and throws himself onto a nearby couch. “Somewhat, yes. I’m sorry I’ve worried you.” He pulls out a notebook and pen. “I have a few practices I was learning from Alfred already planned, but I want to get some outside opinions. I was hoping you were well read on the subject, or had some interest in learning if not.”

“I’m afraid I’ve never been a physical fighter, as you know.” Ed smiles. “I’m more of a thinker.” He sits up and settles against the back of the couch. “You’ve decided to teach him to fight?”

“I’ve given myself a concrete, attainable goal, per Lee’s request,” Bruce says. It’s when he says this that his confidence wavers, and he looks to Ed, searching for something, but for the life of him Ed can’t imagine what he could offer to boost Bruce’s self esteem. “This just also benefits Richard, given his tendency to throw himself into danger without much regard to his personal safety.”

“That seems a bit harsh,” Ed chuckles, “but I suppose it isn’t entirely inaccurate.”

“He is fifteen,” Bruce sighs.

Ed can’t really relate, but he assumes neither can Bruce. “Neither of us had that kind of luxury.”

“No,” Bruce agrees, shaking his head, “we didn’t.” Bruce’s face flows through several different emotions Ed can’t interpret at the rapid pace Bruce goes through them, but nothing was particularly positive.

Ed clears his throat. “So, you’re looking to research some self defense courses for Richard? I’m sure I could help.”

“Did you ever consider learning self defense?” Bruce asks. “Fighting was never really in your MO, but you certainly got yourself into plenty of physical altercations.”

Ed shakes his head. “Not by design I assure you.”

“That’s true of many of Gotham’s remaining rogues. I don’t want to encourage him to pick fights when it’s unnecessary,” Bruce explains.

“No of course not.” Ed recognizes what this conversation has turned into; Bruce is looking for reassurance, and Ed must be one of the few people around today available to listen. “I’m sure you’ll be a fine teacher, given the level of expertise you’ve obtained.”

“I do hope so. He’s naive,” Bruce says. “It isn’t a bad thing. He’s had a relatively non traumatic life, as I’ve come to understand. It’s somewhat refreshing, knowing Gotham has reached a point where people grow up and they don’t have baggage to drag around.”

“I guess.” Ed shrugs. “Yes, it’s a good sign I suppose, for Gotham as a whole.”

Bruce nods, but not with enthusiasm. “I’m envious.”  He rubs his hands over his face. “But that isn’t productive.” He focuses back on Ed, and there's the barest hint of a smile. “As for your offer to help, thank you. I'm having some difficulty with follow through at the moment, but I think your assistance will help motivate me.”

Ed nods. “I've been needing something to do. I'll begin researching, if you don't mind.”

“I need to inventory the equipment we have on hand for his training. We should meet back in a few hours to discuss what we've learned.”

“Certainly.” Ed gets up and steadies himself using the back of the couch. He smiles back at Bruce briefly before retreating from the room and finding himself in the bedroom, intent on finding his tablet to do a bit of research.

“Self defense,” he mutters, digging through the papers strewn about the desk until he uncovers his laptop. “June 6th,” he starts speaking, then he coughs, a bit embarrassed, and he pulls out his tablet and hits opens his recording app. “June 6th, I've begun researching self defense for Bruce with the intent of teaching Richard Grayson, aka Robin, some proper self defense techniques to use should he ever find himself in a fight.”

-

Oswald finds him there on the bed, curled up under their pile of blankets and hiding. He can't see that the person that just entered is actually Oswald, but he has experience listening to the uneven yet so consistent limp Oswald uses to get around. He can't hear the quiet thump of a cane today, possibly ill advised, but Oswald is an expert regarding his leg and what it can handle while Ed is a novice at best.

A hand touches the small part of his hair still exposed to the room, and Ed sighs. Definitely Oswald. And when Oswald pulls back the blankets Ed blinks up at him, squinting from the lights of the room and his lack of corrective eyewear.

“Should you really be lying on this side?” Oswald asks.

Ed knows he means his right side, his _bad_ side now, and he huffs out a tired breath and shrugs. “It doesn't hurt.” A lie, but it doesn't hurt terribly, and he doesn't like having his back to the door even if his vision is obstructed by blankets. “I'm alright.”

“You're hiding.”

“Physically, I'm alright,” he amends. Oswald motions for Ed to scoot back to the middle of the bed and he does, watching Oswald lower himself onto the free portion of the bed. When he's properly situated Ed moves closer until his head is resting on Oswald’s shoulder, one arm secure around his torso and the other curled up against his own chest. Oswald’s arm moves to hold Ed's shoulders, pulling him a fraction closer.

“What brought this on?” Oswald asks. The question is gentle, more a small curiosity than a demand, although he's sure Oswald would be miffed if Ed were to keep it a secret. “You told me _two_ riddles before I even managed to sit up this morning. It's a shame to see a good mood go to waste.”

Ed shakes his head, but he finds himself answering anyway. “Research rabbit hole,” he says. “Hindsight was unkind.”

“When has it ever been kind?” Oswald quips. “I'd smack my younger self silly for _hundreds_ of things I've deemed ridiculous and petty, although as strange as Gotham is I don't think time travel has come into the mix.”

“Fair enough.” Ed licks his lips, and his left hand tugs at Oswald’s shirt. Oswald responds by moving his other hand behind Ed's back, circling his shoulders and holding him. Ed hides his eyes against Oswald's chest. “Bruce is going to teach self defense. To Richard,” he clarifies. The steady lubdub at his ear keeps him from becoming frantic, but only just. He still blurts out, “it's, there's no reason _why_ but, well the articles link to similar topics, and normally I would have better focus but there's just _something_ -”

“Ed,” Oswald stops his ranting with a hand in his hair, and the other rubs his back in smooth circles. “You've said it yourself, Strange won't strike here. Not without good reason.”

“Not him,” Ed says, although he does take a few moments to lament his inability to stop Bruce from taking him down with one measly blow. Something to consider, certainly, but not right now. “Earlier. _Much_ earlier.”

“Ah.” Oswald urges Ed to sit up a bit more, and he complies, scooting up so his face is against Oswald’s neck, hands tugging at his shirt, wrinkling the nicely pressed button down beyond repair.

“I wouldn't want to see myself,” Ed says, referencing Oswald’s proposed time travel, “not in person, but maybe a letter or two. Maybe avoid a few unpleasantries here and there. That sort of thing.”

“You would jeopardize the delicate chain of events that led us to this moment?” Oswald hums thoughtfully. “I don't blame you.” He adds quickly. Ed feels a bit of his tingling panic ebb away. “There are plenty of moments I'd rather do away with.”

“A foolish wish,” he says. His voice feels raspy, and a bit thick. “Frivolous.”

“Maybe,” Oswald muses, “or maybe not. I'm not a therapist. I try not to dwell, and that seems to work, for whatever that's worth.”

Ed wonders what Lee would say. Maybe something similar to Oswald's casual declaration about not dwelling on the past, although it's not like he _wants_ to end up stuck in bed in a funk.

He should ask her. Lee's insight has been rather helpful to date.

 _He'll be happy you're taking care of yourself_. She'd said that to him. About Oswald. About therapy. He just can't fathom it. There's never been a scenario in his mind where Oswald takes the news well.

But if he never tells him it'll cause problems later. Keeping things from Oswald always does eventually. And somewhere past the worry Ed _wants_ him to know, he can admit that to himself.

He would definitely prefer telling him first rather than Oswald finding out on his own, and right now he's at least on some solid ground with Oswald here to offer some stability. He feels pliant here, comfortable. Oswald has a way of disarming him with a simple touch, a gentle rub against the base of his skull. It's easy to fall under his spell when he knows just how to work Ed over until he's no more than putty in his arms.

He wants to, no, he _needs_ to tell him now, before he loses his nerve. Because what he'd really rather do is just compartmentalize the part of himself that goes to therapy into this neat little box and shove it somewhere deep down in his subconscious, but Lee's been on him about holding things in, and that feels like he'd be doing exactly what she's told him _not_ to do.

Ed's mouth aborts starting the conversation several times, lips quirking against Oswald’s shoulder and his whole body tensing up with nervousness. Oswald pets his hair, his back, and he uses one hand to gently lift Ed's face from his shoulder. His expression is calm, if not tinged with a little worry, and Ed ducks his head, embarrassed by his inability to articulate properly.

“Take your time,” Oswald says. “You're letting me dodge plenty of work while I'm here, so I'm in no rush.”

“I've been talking to Lee,” he blurts out. Oswald blinks. “That isn't clear, no, what I meant,” he takes a which breath and rambles on ahead, “she offered to act as a sort of therapist, a voice of conscious, or possibly reason, something to that effect, and I agreed. I speak to her occasionally, about things, about, well, us sometimes, mostly Strange, and my parents now, it seems.”

“Ed-”

“And I should have said something, I'm sorry. I, we had an agreement, a pact, and I've gone against that. You have every right to be mad,” he whispers. “I’ll, if you want me to stop-"

“Ed,” Oswald shushes him, running his thumb over Ed's bottom lip, Ed feels a warm flush blooming on his face. “Your imagination has been running _wild_.”

“I'm only remembering what we said,” he insists. “We swore off therapy.”

“We swore off Arkham. I think I'm justified in saying those are two different beasts entirely.”

“They tortured you.”

“Yes.” Oswald smooths back Ed's hair off his forehead. “But I don't remember Lee being present during those little sessions. My memory hasn't gotten _that_ fuzzy.”

“I don't understand.” Ed grabs Oswald's hand before it can move off his cheek and holds it there. “I imagined you would get angry, or upset.”

Oswald takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I am a self proclaimed expert on the inner workings of you,” he says, “and with that I'd like to claim I've gained insight on some of the more difficult thought processes you rely on, but as intelligent and clever as I am, I must admit I'm not a therapist. If she's helping I don't see why I should get upset. And I assume you'll say something if she suddenly loses that bleeding heart of hers and needs a stern talking to, with the aid of my cane of course.” He wipes his thumb under Ed's eye and tuts softly. “Honestly, what have I done to suggest I wouldn't trust your judgement.” He shifts and holds Ed's face in both of his hands, wiping Ed's cheeks. “You're crying,” he whispers, “but you look relieved.”

“I am,” he laughs. “I'm an idiot.”

“You're not,” he chides. “I’ve just perfected acting in a way that makes people underestimate me. You aren't my first victim by any means.”

Ed laughs again, and he reclaims Oswald's side, shoving his face back against his shoulder. They don't speak for some time, they don't need to. Ed's nearly fallen asleep when he mumbles, “I need to speak with Bruce.”

“I'm sure it can wait.” He emphasizes this with a hand in Ed's hair, petting down the worst of his sweaty curls and making him drowsy. “I plan on capitalizing on not working for as long as possible.”

Ed nods, and he closes his eyes. “Don't let me sleep too long.”

“Says the person that let me sleep on a couch in a cave for over an hour.” Oswald faux-complains. “We'll see.”

-

He has the distinct sensation of waking alone some time later, and Ed gropes in a blind panic, eyes still mostly shut but his heart is racing, and suddenly there's an arm under his head, or maybe he's just now noticed it, and another arm pulls him into a tight hold from behind. He breathes slowly, deliberately, and the frantic beating in his ears slows.

“You woke up complaining about your knee,” Oswald whispers in his ear, “so I made you roll over. I'll try not to toot my own horn, but it was quite the elegant solution.”

“Some always want me on. Some find me a burden, others a thing to waste.” He sighs when Oswald kisses the back of his head. “What am I?”

“Something I'm not going to answer, I can assure you.”

“Time, as in, what time is it?” Ed blinks his eyes clear and tries to focus on the bedside table, hoping for an alarm clock of some sort. “I’m guessing late.”

“Hardly. It's midday.” Oswald sits up behind him, groaning with apparent discomfort, but he doesn't vocalize any complaints. “Before you claim I've let you sleep too long I need to inform you I tried keeping you awake when your leg was bothering you but you weren't having it. Clearly you needed the rest.” Ed rolls onto his back and looks up at Oswald, squinting up at him and still shaking away a few lingering unpleasantness. “Bad dreams?”

“Only vague notions,” he says. He actually prefers the concrete nightmares over this, because at least then he knows what's bothering him. Instead he's going to spend half his day _guessing_ at what might be the cause. Delightful.

“Well, I've certainly put off work as long as I should.” Oswald carefully slips Ed's glasses onto his face. “I assume you're getting up.”

“Yes,” he says. He should, at least. He's put off speaking with Bruce as long as he reasonably can. “I'm going to have to turn down a job, it seems. It's only right that I tell him in person.”

“Suit yourself,” Oswald sighs. “I have to read something about animal husbandry,” he says, grimacing. “It’s astounding really, the impressive amount of _details_ you need to consider just to put a few fish in a tank.”

“Good luck,” Ed says, and he pushes himself up so he can sit on the edge of the bed. He watches Oswald stand up to straighten out his clothes, focusing on his hands and the way they smooth out creases and brush away phantom dust. Oswald catches him staring, somehow he always does, and Ed welcomes the slight blush he feels when Oswald leers at him from his place near the door.

Neither of them comes up with anything witty to say, and Oswald leaves with a slight nod and a wink. Ed reminds himself that he has important matters to tend to this afternoon and shoves away less productive thoughts to deal with later tonight.

He stretches out his leg to loosen his knee up, taking extra care when it twinges painfully. It's mild at least, certainly tolerable with the aid of his brace, and he pulls on the brace before changing out of his wrinkled clothes.

He finds Bruce in the kitchen alone, huddled over a bowl of something edible. He glances up briefly when Ed approaches and nods once before returning his focus to his food, which upon closer inspection appears to be oatmeal.

“You look well rested,” Bruce comments.

“I am, for the most part,” Ed agrees. Although Bruce's attitude is sending up a few red flags related to Ed's vague dreams. “I'm afraid I do have a bit of bad news though.”

“Oh?” Bruce looks up again briefly, nodding once, giving Ed the go ahead to tell him. “I suppose it can't be too dire.”

“Right,” Ed sighs. “It isn’t, but I'm afraid I can't research self defense.”

“I think I scared Selina away,” Bruce says, then he blinks. “Sorry, you said something.”

“That can wait,” Ed assures him. “What's this about Selina?”

“She hadn't been back since my panic attack. I asked Lee if she told Selina to give me space and she said no. You didn't give her anything to do, did you?” Ed shakes his head. “I suspected as much. My only conclusion is that my behavior scared her, and she's avoiding me.”

“Maybe you're supposed to go to her,” Ed guesses.

“Maybe,” Bruce sighs into his oatmeal. “You came here to tell me something.”

Ed nods, but then he hesitates. “It can wait,” he says, moving from the counter. “Sorry to bother you.”

“Ed, sit,” Bruce calls after him, and he turns back around, walking closer and pulling up a stool. “I'd much prefer it if you just tell me, please.”

“I can't research self defense,” he says. “There are, let's call them mental connections, there are certain mental connections I have that are somewhat negative, and self defense has unfortunately fallen into one of those, ah, connections, let's say, if that makes sense.”

“Alright,” Bruce sighs. “I appreciate your effort, in any case. I'll consult with Alfred and Jim.”

Ed nods, but he feels an explanation bubbling up inside his chest, just waiting to fall out of his mouth in word vomit form. He hasn't told Bruce. He's told Oswald, of course, and Jim, and Lee. He was hoping that would be enough, that sharing with a _therapist_ would be the final time he'd feel this urge clawing its way out of him. But no, here it is again, and Ed can't resist it.

“It was-” he stops himself, clamping his mouth shut, but Bruce is watching him now, looking at him with obvious worry, and Ed lowers his hand slowly, quirking his lips through a few test phrases before he finishes with a simple, curt, “abuse.”

Bruce sits up fully and moves his bowl to one side. He folds his hands together and quirks up one brow, asking for an explanation, or maybe just showing he's interested if Ed wants to share.

“My parents,” he clarifies. “I had,” he pauses, taking a breath, “an unpleasant childhood.”

Bruce is quiet, but he nods, accepting Ed's explanation. He licks his lips, and it takes him a few moments to respond, but when he does Ed's blood runs cold. “I read your Arkham file.”

“Wh-” Ed clamps his mouth shut.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “It was years ago, before you and Oswald revealed your protective habits to me, back when I was working as a vigilante. I read everyone's files so I could better understand motives and reasonings, in order to hopefully avoid unnecessary bloodshed. I feel terrible. I know I invaded your privacy and there's no real way to make up for that.”

“You knew,” Ed says. He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths. “For years?”

“Yes,” Bruce admits. “I'm so sorry.”

“Don't be,” Ed whispers. He feels like a few of the too tight strings in his chest finally gained a little slack. “It’s in the distant past.”

“I meant about invading your privacy,” Bruce says. “Not that I'm not sympathetic. You didn't deserve the treatment you received as a child.”

Ed breathes slowly through his nose, afraid that if he opens his mouth he'll throw up, although there's nothing in his stomach. He knew. Bruce knew. “You never used it against me.”

“Of course not. Why would I? I read the file to try to _understand_ you. To help you. I could only assume about your past when you didn’t offer the information to me freely, but after I learned about the abuse I tried to make an effort to avoid physical force when apprehending you. It seemed appropriate.” Bruce shakes his head. “Looking back, I wish I hadn't read it, not without your permission.”

“You saw me as a _person,_ ” Ed says, “when you read it. Right?’

“I knew you were a person, Ed, it just gave me insight to what kind of person you can be. And that your motivations aren't always backed by positive influences.”

Ed blinks sadly. “Oswald, you mean.”

“Only somewhat. You wouldn't be in my kitchen today without him,” Bruce says. “You enable one another, and in the past that's had a negative influence on your lives,” Ed sucks in a breath, “but you've agreed to better yourselves together, and continue to enable one another, only this time in a positive way. It's quite the improvement, in my opinion at least.”

Ed mouths ‘thank you’ to Bruce and ducks his head. He's going to need some time to properly interpret what he's feeling about this little reveal, but he's finding himself somewhat relieved. He's irritated, certainly, because he'd thought the one thing Arkham had going for it was unusually high security measures, but there's no undoing the past now, and if he's honest with himself he wouldn't want to. He believes Bruce when he says he read it because he wants to help. While it's true Ed is sitting here because of Oswald's influence, for better or worse, he's also here because Bruce genuinely seems to want them to have a decent life, and his tireless efforts made a difference somewhere down the line, although Ed can't pick out a specific moment when that became true. Maybe it was all of the moments together, slowly building in strength until the final metaphorical drop made the cup overflow.

“You're being quiet,” Bruce says, snapping Ed out of his thoughts. “I don't want to scare you away too.”

“You haven't,” he whispers. Ed clears his throat and smiles. “Your honesty is appreciated, if a bit delayed.” Ed sighs. “Before you seek advice for your project I want to bounce an idea off you, to get some perspective.” Bruce nods. “Nora,” he pauses, “Nora doesn't know about me, about who I am or what I've done, and I think,” Ed licks his lips, chewing on the bottom one before finishing, “she deserves to know, or at least I feel compelled to tell her but I don't know how, exactly.”

“I think you have an idea in your head,” Bruce says. “And if it's the idea I think it is, my only advice is to do what you think is best, and trust her to make a reasonable judgement.” Bruce smiles at him, and it looks confident, far more confident than Ed's feeling. “I don't think you need to worry as long as you're candid with her.”

Ed nods. He gets up from the stool and walks towards the door. “She might hate me.”

“Maybe,” Bruce agrees, “but doubtful. She doesn't hate Victor.”

“Right,” Ed agrees, feeling just a tiny bit more confidence starting to bloom in his chest, and he leaves the kitchen to head to the lab.

-

“June 7th, personal log, I am telling Nora today.”

He nearly told her yesterday, got as far as standing by her gurney with as much confidence and determination as he could muster, but Lee was there giving her an oxygen test, and the results were somewhat disappointing. Ed recognized it as a bad time to ask her to make sound judgement and walked away without saying a word.

But today he's going to do it. Lee gave her the okay to venture upstairs, which Ed assumes in a permanent change given the sheer effort it took Nora to climb out of the lab. But it also means she finally got to see the sun again, and it's put her in high spirits. He finds her on a couch in the parlor, the closest one to the window, with her legs curled up under her and a book in her hands.

“This is quite the setting change,” Ed says. She looks up as he sits down on the other end of the couch; she smiles at him.

“I'm glad this didn't keep me downstairs,” Nora says as she pats the top of her oxygen tank. “Lee thinks getting out of the lab might help. Doctors were always telling me a positive attitude helps the process.”

“I personally find lab setting much more agreeable.”

“You and Victor would get along,” she says. Her smile fades a little at the edges, and there’s a certain sadness in her eyes.

“Bruce is looking,” Ed says, but he doesn’t know if that’s actually true. “I’ve been told the room he’s been constructing for Victor’s use is ready.”

“Isn’t that just a walk in freezer?”

“In a sense, although I assume there’s also a bed,” he chuckles to himself, and Nora’s at least smiling again. “I’ve been improving his compact cooling system in my spare time. I’ll need his help, but it should allow him to move about somewhat normally without,” he pauses, “have you read his file? There’s a suit he has to wear, something that cools him, but he developed a smaller version.”

“I read it,” she says. “Some of it, at least. It felt strange to read. I’d rather just speak to him in person, I think.” She sits up a bit straighter and sets aside her book and folds her arms over her stomach. “I’ve read a lot of the files.”

“Some of them are quite entertaining,” he says. He feels a prickling of anxiety but pushes it down. She’s calm, she’s smiling. Clearly she hasn’t read his file. “Gotham has a lot of interesting citizens.”

“It really does,” she agrees. “There was something I read earlier, I’m sorry, I think I should have asked if he was okay with it, but I read one, oh what was it,” Nora mutters to herself as she reaches for a tablet on the nearby coffee table. She clumsily taps a the screen a few times and turns it around to show Ed a somewhat old photo of Oswald smirking at something off camera. “I thought I recognized him. He’s the Penguin, right?”

Ed blinks at the photo, looking up at Nora and back down to the screen. It's the file Bruce made for Oswald, laid bare for Nora to see. He takes the tablet and scrolls down, noting the brief biography and generalized MO, but not finding anything too personal. Nothing she couldn't learn from the news at least.

“You read this. All of it.” Nora nods. “You aren't afraid to share space with him?”

“A little, at first,” she admits. Ed feels the first tendrils of guilt unfurling in his gut. “But the file said he was exonerated. And he brought me tea.”

“Really?”

“And this book,” she indicates the novel she set aside. “He said it was derivative but amusing. I think he wants to talk about it together when I'm done.” She sighs, sounding content and somehow not terrified about her living situation. “He's changed from that person in the file,” she says, “and that gives me hope for Victor.”

Ed returns to the list and scrolls down, and when he finds the file marked Riddler he sucks in a breath, but he opens it before he can stop himself and hands the tablet back. “I need to do some things,” he says. It's a flimsy excuse bit he can't watch her read it. “I think you should read this in the meantime.”

He bolts from the room before she can get past the header of his police record. He hides in a back hallway, watching her scroll through some of his most intimate, villainous secrets. There's a sense of dread settling in alongside his already anxious feelings, and the mix of negativity is making him feel sick. She'll read this in its entirety, and once she has she'll learn who he really is, and that's it. Ed will fade into the background and produce her medication, and she'll take it, and that will be the end of their interactions.

“Making a habit of stalking people I see,” Oswald whispers in Ed's ear, and Ed turns to him, breath fast but hopefully quiet, and he takes in the odd expression on Oswald's face. “Having fun with your new _companion_?”

 _Oh_. “She's, I'm waiting, because she's reading something I gave her.” He glances back at Nora and back to Oswald. “You look unhappy.” Oswald shrugs, still looking oddly mopey and oh, oh dear. “Oswald, there's nothing to be jealous about, there's, she's, well it's rare that anyone knows what I'm talking about when I'm working, and because of Victor she, what, why are you laughing?”

Oswald’s face is contorted from laughter; he practically _mirthful_. He puts a hand on Ed's shoulder, looking up at him with an amused fondness while he collects himself. “You think I'm _jealous_?”

“I, well there's no real reason to be, but yes, I did think that.”

“Ed you've made a _friend_ ,” Oswald tells him. “Someone more than willing to let you talk their _ear_ off about science. I should really be thanking this woman. You've looked lonely, down in the lab, and as much as I'd like to put a stop to that you know science talk puts me to sleep.”

Ed huffs out a single breath through his nose, laughing to himself. “Every time.”

“Honestly I'm just _miffed_ because I gave her that book because _you_ refuse to read novels, and I need someone to complain to about the ending.”

“You're being cordial,” Ed says, smiling.

Oswald shrugs. “Maybe I'm planning on staying on Victor's good side.”

Ed glances back to the couch where Nora's reading, only she's set the tablet aside, one hand up and apparently covering her mouth, possibly from shock. Ed's smile goes away, and he backs up a couple steps. “I may have already ruined things, it seems. I have her my police record to read.”

“You gave her your files?”

“Police record,” Ed corrects. Oswald gives him a look. “Why are you staring like that?”

“Ed the GCPD files include your _Arkham_ file,” Oswald says. Ed feels cold, and the dread he'd managed to keep at a low, reasonable level about sends him to his knees legs buckling because it's one thing to see his crimes and punishments but _she's reading his Arkham file._ Interviews, therapy, he's laid it all bare. “You can't have forgotten-Ed, Ed look at me.” Oswald turns his head and Ed gulps, blinking away his blurry vision. Oswald wipes his cheeks; they're wet, it seems. He hadn't realized. “She knows. About your family, stints at the asylum, all of it.”

“I didn't-” he gulps. He can't find the words.

“Well a part of you _did_ ,” Oswald says forcefully, but softly. There's no real bite to his words. “Come on. I'll draw a bath. Give yourself some time to collect yourself before you go burning down perfectly fine bridges.”

-

She finds him, and not the other way around. Ed never bothered getting fully dressed after his bath with Oswald, and he ties the tie of his robe just a bit tighter to keep it over his bare chest. He isn’t wearing socks or shoes; it feels more intimate than it should but he feels exposed already, raw and open in a way he hadn't prepared for, not consciously. His subconscious is trying to get the upper hand, it seems. Not usually a good sign.

“You read it,” he says, deadpan. Sounding as listless as he feels. “All of it. Even the Arkham files.”

She nods. And then she sits on a chair instead of fleeing like he expected. “I'm sorry you went through such a tough childhood,” she says. “I don't really know what else to say.”

“I don't want pity.” Nora shifts in her seat, clearly uncomfortable with him, being near him. This is a formality at best before they cut ties all together. “I shouldn't have given that to you. It was a cowardly way to tell you about my past.” He huffs. “And it was deceitful waiting so long. I lied to you.”

“You didn't lie.”

“I didn't tell you who I am, or what I've done. I let you believe in falsehoods.” He rubs his hands over his face, shoving his glasses up and not caring when they end up smudged.

“That's not really a lie,” she says. “You just kept it a secret, and I should have stopped reading. It was too much, too personal. The other files were much smaller.”

“I gave it to you,” he says. “All of it.”

“But if you didn't mean to-”

“All. Of. It.” He breathes in through his nose and out his mouth. “Even if I didn't _consciously_ think to do so, I must have wanted to.” He closes his eyes. “You must think I'm a monster. You're probably right.”

“I don't think that.”

“You probably should.”

She doesn't agree with him, but she doesn't disagree either. Instead she says, “I need to thank you.”

“For showing you why you should avoid me, I understand.”

“No, for giving me hope for Victor,” she says. Ed looks up at her, confused and searching. “The Riddler terrifies me, but that's not who I'm talking to now, right? You aren't that person anymore.”

“Yes,” Ed says, “and no. It's, that persona is a part of me. A part I let get out of hand and take control.” He can't properly articulate how he let that happen, not fully. _Oswald,_ he thinks. That certainly sent his mental faculties into a tailspin. But he also dragged Ed back, bit by bit, offering his person as a focal point for Ed Nygma to cling to while the Riddler ran rampant through Gotham. A part of him misses it, and that scares him the most. “I'm not who I appear to be. I understand if learning this means you'll want to cut our interactions down to the bare minimum.”

“Maybe for a little while,” she says. “It's a lot to take in.”

He finds himself more distressed that she agreed with him rather than blindly defend his personhood. But it's better this way. “I’ll continue making your treatment if you’re comfortable with that.”

She nods. “I trust you.”

Ed lowers his face so he can’t see her anymore, focusing on the carpet and trying to keep his composure, at least until she leaves. “I think you should go.”

-

“June 10th, I am increasing production by twenty percent,” he pauses, watching as Nora situates herself on the stool next to him. “You’re sure?”

“I forgot what this is called,” she says, pointing to his spiral condenser, and ignoring his question.

“A condenser. This particular style is a spiral condenser, used to change a gas to a liquid,” he explains. “I prefer this style because of its effectiveness in cooling the gas quickly.”

“Which turns it into a liquid.”

“Correct.”

He can’t stop smiling.


	19. Chapter 19

Bruce shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and shifts his weight against the rusted steel bars of Selina's fire escape. There's movement inside, cats most likely, but he thinks he caught a glimpse of her walking to and from the kitchen.

He should consider knocking.

It's not that he hasn't actually thought about it, but Bruce can't seem to get his hand to leave his pocket long enough to tap at the glass separating them. Things between them are still a mystery right now, but he welcomes the mystery, because it's much easier to pretend that things are fine and she's just busy. There's always the chance he'll knock and she'll turn him away, possibly forever, and he'll be left standing on a fire escape in the Narrows with no real incentive to do anything other than wallow in self pity.

It's much easier to never confront the issue, but he gave up the easy route a long time ago.

He steps forward and taps, just once, because the hard route is hard for a reason, and he wants to give himself a chance to calm himself before she pops her head out the window.

He's partway through a calming exercise when the window to his right opens and Selina leans out, curly hair blowing about in the breeze and a small smirk on her face. “You've been out here for like, half an hour. Kinda creepy.”

“Hello,” is all he manages to say. Selina rolls her eyes.

“Don't just stand out here if you came for a good reason” she says, and Bruce moves over to the open window and slings one leg inside. “Was that really that hard?”

Bruce shakes off her comment and moves into the open space so he can claim a couch. The moment he sits he's greeted by a few cats, and one of the friendly ones hops up onto his lap and curls up on his legs. “We haven't spoken in nearly two weeks. I thought it was time we talked.”

“Yeah I figured,” she says. She sits on the couch across from him and holds her arms up until a few cats swarm her, looking for attention and some ear scratching. The cat on Bruce's lap nudges at his hand. “You got saddled with the needy one.”

“It's alright.” It's giving his hands something to do. “I need to apologize.”

“Why?” she asks, and Bruce isn't sure how to answer. “I'm the one that fucked off after you got all freaked out.”

“To get help,” he says. “Which was something I needed, but I was ignoring it.”

“Well I'll still say I'm sorry, okay?”

“You're forgiven.” He hadn't actually been mad, but if she feels the need to own her actions he'll help any way he can. “I still think I should apologize.”

“What for Bruce. I mean it. If you can think of something, sure, go for it, otherwise there's no point.”

Bruce swallows around some uneasiness as it tightens his throat. “You're angry. That seems like a good reason.”

“Maybe,” she sighs. “Okay, you want to know why you should apologize?” He nods. “You keep pretending you're alright when you're obviously not. You can't do that shit, okay? You're going to be a dad, and if you hold that stuff in until it explodes out of you you're going to seriously screw this kid up.”

“When have I done that?”

“Are you kidding me? The _second_ you weren't stuck in that memory thing you acted like it _didn't happen._ Like you were fine just like that,” she snaps her fingers, “only you _weren't_. Don't tell me that's okay, Bruce, because it's screwing you up too.”

He looks down at the cat on his lap, scratching it under the chin and hunching his shoulders forward. “I’m not fine, okay? I know that. I started talking to Lee almost daily since my panic attack. Sometimes it's short, only a few minutes. She's said something similar.” He sighs. “I'm sorry.”

“You better be,” she snaps. Her face softens though, and she shrugs. “You sound better.”

“I feel more focused,” he agrees. “I'm going to train Richard in self defense. If you have any input I'll listen. You taught me plenty about the streets of Gotham.”

“I don't have anything new to tell you.” She wags her finger at a fluffy, flat faced gray cat and smirks when it starts to play. “I don't have time to help, if that's what you meant to ask.”

“You have work?”

“This and that,” she shrugs. “Dumping inventory, giving some mooks long term stuff to do, that sort of thing. Ivy's been kind of whiny out on Arkham island so I had to go give her company.”

“But she's alright otherwise?”

Selina nods. “I mean, she's holding her own, but Strange _really_ freaked her out this time. She's not going to want to help.”

“I'm just glad she's safe.” And her surveillance Ed requested is at least monitoring Arkham for Strange. “The next time you see her could you ask her to keep an eye out for Victor Fries? I haven't seen any sign of him since we recovered Nora.”

“Sure, but she's still kind of stuck on the island. Building strength or whatever. She really peaks in mid summer though. Could have half of Gotham on her radar by then.”

“I hope so, but if not what she's doing is already very helpful. Victor Zsasz is still in Arkham, and with Strange’s control over Victor Fries’ becoming more tenuous he’s going to need someone else as his main muscle.”

“Sounds like you'll be busy.”

“Possibly.” He moves to stand, shoving the cat off his lap gently and brushing away cat hair. “I should get going. I know you're busy too, but for my peace of mind I would prefer if you returned to the Manor once your affairs are straightened out.”

“You'd prefer it huh.”

“I would.” He hesitates by the arm of the couch, biting the inside of his cheek and gauging Selina's reaction. She's not terribly enthused. “I know you can care for yourself, but Strange's movements and whereabouts are currently unknown. It would just make me more comfortable knowing you're safe.” She shrugs one shoulder, not nearly as concerned as he is. “Selina are we okay?”

She looks at him with a somewhat resigned expression. “You tell me. Does everything feel okay?”

Bruce shakes his head. “It doesn't, but I don't know which part feels that way.”

“Well, that's better than lying to yourself.” She gets up and her cats scatter, and she makes him lean down so she can kiss his cheek. “Don't think too hard about it okay? I’ll see you around.”

-

_Day one_

“I want you to show me a fighting stance.”

“Uh, but I don't know any,” Richard says. He's fidgeting with his jacket, full of excitement and maybe some nerves, and Bruce hates to do this to him but Richard will need a bit of humbling before he'll really learn anything.

“Give it your best try,” Bruce says. He leans against a nearby weight bench, posture loose, open. He wants Richard to feel like he can ask Bruce questions without fear of ridicule. “Everyone has to start from the bottom, but I want to see what that means for you.”

Richard squares his shoulders and nods, watching Bruce for a moment before he moves into what Bruce assumes is Richard's take on some sort of martial arts stance, but it's a bit stiff and unbalanced. He's a bit dismayed to learn that Richard isn't actually sure how to hold his arms, and his fists aren't in proper form to keep him from breaking something when he punches.

 _But that's why he's here_ , Bruce reminds himself, _to learn_. “You’re stiff here and here,” he indicates Richard’s back and legs. “Fighting needs fluidity, and loose but controlled limbs. I'll show you. Try to mimic me.”

He shakes his muscles loose and falls into an easy stance, wrists straight, thumbs to the side of his fists. Richard moves to his side and looks to Bruce then down to his too wide feet, and back to Bruce again. He's still a little tense but not terribly, and his natural balance is restored now that he's not trying to appear wider than he is.

“Better,” Bruce says. “It's important to stay loose, like when you're doing gymnastics. You want to be able to shift your weight into the next move without jarring anything. And your size shouldn't affect your ability to defend yourself. It's more important to be able to use your opponent's size against them rather than try to overpower them with brute force.”

“I don't think I'm overpowering anybody,” Richard says, a bit dejected, but he peps back up right away without any coaching. “So now I do a punch, right?” He throws a weak jab at the air.

“You throw punches,” Bruce says, holding in a small laugh. “And it's a movement with your whole body, not just the arm.”

“Right, okay,” he watches Bruce throw one right jab before mimicking the movement. “Like that?”

-

_Day ten_

“This little device is a rubber and foam covered force plate. With it, I'll be able to get a quantitative reading on just how strong your punches are now, and in the future we can use it again to show how much you've improved,” Ed explains all this to Richard as he moves about the workout space. Bruce hangs back and watches, adjusting his hood and sunglasses so they stay in place for his demonstration.

“Aren't force plates made of metal?” Richard asks, scratching at his temple and shifting a bit nervously. “Won't that hurt?”

“Not with the foam,” Ed assures him. He taps his hand against the plate and indicates the small jump on the nearby screen. “This graph is very sensitive, and I've calculated the interference caused by the protective covering and input them into the program. The accuracy of the readings can't be surpassed.”

Bruce isn't certain that's absolutely true but Ed's in high spirits, so he doesn't refute his claim. And Richard is looking less apprehensive and more excited to begin, so he steps up. “I'll demonstrate first to give you a good idea of what to expect.”

“If I may,” Ed interjects, “I'll demonstrate.” He gives Richard a quick glance and looks back to Bruce, and Bruce nods, understanding the intent. Ed isn't made for fighting, what muscle he has developed is better suited for slow twitch activities, but he'll give Richard more reasonable expectations for his own performance. “Now, I'm sure he's spent plenty of time telling you how to punch properly,” Ed says as he rolls up one sleeve of his button down, “but I'll reiterate. Don't bend your wrist, no thumbs over fingers, and with this particular situation I only ask that you try to aim your hit in a way that doesn't cause the plate to hit any other equipment. Follow through,” Ed mutters, maybe to himself, and he gives a bit clumsy but otherwise perfectly acceptable punch, shaking his hand out afterwards and highlighting the peak of force on the graph so he can label it with a simple “Enigma” near the top of the peak. “There. When we're done we'll compare forces versus body weight, height, et cetera. That's where my actual expertise comes into play.”

“So now I punch it?” Richard asks, balancing on the balls of his feet and shifting side to side. “And we'll see how strong I am now?”

“In a sense. Remember this is measuring only one specific form of strength,” Bruce says. “Your strength and ability overall is what will matter if you get into a fight.” He's fairly certain they're only doing this because Ed is getting a bit bored in the lab, and it gives him a little pet project to work on in his spare time. “Go ahead.”

Richard gears himself up with a little shake and throws a punch at the plate; he's still a bit wobbly and stiff, but the punch is solid enough, and a peak appears on the graph beside Ed's. Richard takes a moment to look over at the screen and a smile stretches across his whole face when he sees the results. “Holy woah, it's higher than yours!”

He's right. Bruce isn't sure of the graph’s scale, but even without that it's clear that Richard’s attempt was a stronger show of force. Ed isn't terribly amused. “Not all of us have the time to focus on strength,” Ed grumbles. He highlights the peak and adds “Robin” as the label. “As I said before, my expertise is in the data analysis,” he gestures to Bruce, “and in any case it's time for you to blow everyone away.”

Bruce is feeling generous for Ed's sake, and he stretches out his arms, giving his muscles an adequate warm up before he faces the plate and lands a strong punch square in the center. The stand moves back a couple inches, something Ed is quick to measure with a ruler, and he grunts with effort as he picks himself up off the floor and moves over to the computer to type in a few new calculations.

“Factoring any loss of measured force from the movement of the stand we have your result,” he says this as he types, and once he's done he turns the screen, now with a new scale in place, and Bruce's peak dwarfing the other two. Ed labels his peak “showoff” and moves on to his next explanation. “Now with these points of data, plus your height and weight that I'll be measuring shortly, I will begin my calculations.”

“How long does that take?” Richard asks. He's looking a bit down now that his peak is shorter in scale, although there's nothing wrong with that. He has a lot of untapped potential in his small frame.

“Considering the tendency of people to shrink throughout the day I'll need three measurements, as well as your weights at those times, and that means I won't have my data until sometime tonight. And I'm somewhat busy with other things. Expect results by the end of the week.”

_Day fifteen_

Jim tips his chair back on two legs before leaning forward, and once he lands he poses Richard a question. “Say you're in an alley, and you see someone being mugged. What do you do?”

“Well,” Richard huffs and examines the row of gadgets Bruce introduced to Richard today. They're all fairly standard: a batarang, smoke bombs, some odds and ends to aid his climbing, things Richard is safe to use at his age. “A smoke bomb would make it hard to see, and I have goggles?”

“Good start,” Jim says, moving a single smoke bomb aside. “How many of these do you usually carry?” he asks Bruce, and Bruce holds up three fingers. “Alright, one smoke bomb down, two left. Now, what do you do?”

“Tell the victim to run?”

Jim shrugs. “You could, or they might run into more danger with all the smoke.”

Richard grimaces. “Can I back up on the smoke bomb?”

Jim shakes his head. “You can't back up in real life so we're not backing up now. Just work with what you've got, Richard. This is a quick thinking exercise. We don't know the wrong answers until the very end.”

Bruce is glad to have help for this lesson. Jim is still hesitant to encourage Richard's behavior, but agrees that Richard needs _something_ under his belt if he's going to keep agreeing to help. And it's easy to just tell Richard what Bruce would do, but that doesn't develop his natural ability, and it certainly doesn't cover every scenario. Bruce has to admit he is a far better teacher of physical skills than mental processing. Imparting actual critical thinking is somewhat difficult, especially with Richard's natural thought process being so different from his own.

“Okay, so, so I don't say to run, but since I can see,” he draws out the word, clearly thinking, “I use this?” He pushes the batarang towards Jim. “Do I know how to throw that in this scenario?”

“We'll say yes for now.” Jim handles the batarang. “Where do you throw it? And why?”

“Well, to knock out the mugger?” He shrugs. “This is hard!”

“Let's assume you succeeded in knocking him out,” Jim says. “I'll give you a C.”

“Aw really? What did I do wrong?” Richard sets his chin in his hands. “Did I throw the wrong thing?”

“You didn't assess the scene,” Jim says. “A quick look isn't enough to see everything, and dropping a smoke bomb means you couldn't really see the knife I'd planned on the mugger holding for this scenario. That should always be step one. Figure out what they have, and what kind of danger it might post to you or any civilians.”

“Oh,” Richard nods. “Wow, I guess I should have been doing that before.”

Jim gets a very brief but severely pained expression before he shrugs. “It's not always easy to remember that your first look might not tell you everything.”

“You could try assessing everyday situations,” Bruce offers. He sits down on the third chair and scoots in closer. “Take Commissioner Gordon for instance. Don't just see his mustache, see the color, and the shape. Try to assign qualitative details to everyday moments to get into the habit.”

“It's not a bad idea,” Jim agrees. “What did you do before when you were stopping crimes in alleys?”

“Well, sometimes we have extra smoke bombs and stuff at the circus, and I usually threw one to cause a distraction. They give off a lot of smoke, or sometimes sparks. Whoever they were trying to rob usually ran away.”

Jim groans and rubs his face. “Okay, things are starting to make sense,” he mutters. “Alright Richard, here's an important scenario. You see a man trying to rob someone, and he has a gun. What do you do?”

“Well, I guess I'd use-”

“No.”

“Right! Right, I assess the scene,” he enunciates clearly. Bruce nods and approval. “Was that right?”

“Yep, it's definitely a gun. Now what?”

“Well I'd use a smoke-"

“No, you wouldn't,” Jim interrupts. “Because if you ever see a gun you're leaving the scene immediately, as fast as you can. Then you're calling Batman or myself. Got it?”

“Okay,” he murmurs. He rocks one of the smoke bombs back and forth with one finger.

“You're too young to handle that kind of situation, and we don't want you getting hurt,” Bruce explains.

“I'm going to be sixteen soon,” he says.

“You're a minor,” Jim says, somewhat more forceful than Bruce. “I don't want you getting yourself in danger period, but especially not when you're fifteen. What would your parents think, huh? Don't they worry with you running around so much?”

“Not in the summer, and I go home every night! I'm not in the main acts so I only have to be at regular practices.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Why am I learning all this stuff if I can't help?”

“Because you can one day,” Bruce says, “and you _have_ helped, but we'll both feel better if you learn a few things now in case you find yourself in a bit of trouble.”

Richard is quiet for a moment, then he asks, “can we try another scenario?”

-

_Day twenty-two_

“How did you get that?” Bruce indicates a wrapped bandage on Richard's right hand. Richard holds his hand close to his chest and shrugs. “You don't know?”

“Well, um, you know how we meet at Commissioner Gordon's office before you bring me here?” Bruce nods, and Richard shuffles his feet. “Well on the way I uh, I didn't mean to! There was someone trying to burn something in a trash can. They heard me on the fire escape and ran away, but after I put out the fire the metal can was kind of hot.”

Bruce sighs quietly and holds out a hand, and Richard only hesitates a moment before letting Bruce undo the bandage. He sucks in a breath. Richard's hand isn't mangled or blistering, but there's a very angry looking red patch on his palm and a couple fingers.

“Did you give yourself first aid? Or tell anyone?”

“I used cold water in the bathroom.” He doesn't mention telling anyone at the GCPD.

Bruce hums once. “Come with me.”

Bruce guides Richard through the lab and over to the small medical space. He's thankful Nora is up and about these days, and as a result of her in proving health the room is empty. Bruce gestures to one of the many chairs so Richard can sit and he turns his attention to the supplies.

“Does this count as not assessing the scene?” he asks. He's already beating himself up over the mistake, it seems.

“Somewhat.” He grabs a soothing balm and some fresh bandages from a cabinet. “I have to admit I'm not the best person at proper burn care, but the person I'm going to call to help is someone we trust, okay? She's on our side.” Richard nods and settles into the chair, holding his hand out to avoid touching anything rough on his outfit. He stays silent while Bruce sends a quick message to Lee, then he turns back to Richard. “This mostly falls under needing to be more careful. I’m sure you'll do better in the future. For now we'll get your hand properly cared for and then we can get to work.”

“My dad's going to be real sore if I can't practice with this.”

Bruce pats Richard on the shoulder and waits until he looks up from his hand before telling him, “he'll just be glad you're alright. Accidents happen.” Richard nods. “Leslie should be down in a moment,” he says, glancing at his phone and the single word acknowledgement, a curt “okay” and nothing more. “Be sure to be honest with her. She'd rather know everything, even if you think it's unimportant. It's better to not keep secrets, because that could be dangerous, even if you don't think it is.”

Richard nods, and then they wait patiently until Lee comes striding over, one hand clutching a pair of gloves and the other tucking a lock of hair out of her face. She smiles at Bruce, giving him a bit of an odd look when she sees his face (it must be the sunglasses). She bends down and looks Richard in the eye. “Hi. You can call me Lee. I hear you have a burn?”

“On my hand, yeah,” he says, holding out his palm. He's quiet for a few second before he adds, “and I fell, sort of. Not very far though! And I caught myself.” That's news to Bruce, but maybe he was embarrassed, based on the flush. “Normally I don't fall.”

“Well I'll take a look at your burn, and if anything hurts you be sure to show me.” She pauses. “What do you want me to call you?” she asks.

“Robin,” he says. He glances over at Bruce. “That's okay right?”

“Of course.”

“Robin,” he reiterates, and Lee nods. “I usually don't fall because my family performs in the circus.”

“So you're good at balancing,” she says. She's gently adding some balm to Richard's hand.

“ _Normally_ ,” he says, bristling a little when she moves to his fingers.

“What happened exactly?”

“Well, I was going to the GCPD to meet Batman for some training,” he explains.

“Batman huh? You didn't even tell him your name?”

“I don't want him to! Holy crap, what if I _told_ somebody?” Richard huffs a few times, then he calms himself down. “Sorry.”

“You're fine,” she says. “What else happened?”

“Well, I was on a fire escape, but somebody was burning something in a trash can, and uh, well I was going to scare them off but then I slipped and almost fell. It made a lot of noise and they ran off anyway.” He pulls up the leg of his pants on the left side and shows off a pretty decent sized bruise. “It doesn't hurt that bad though.”

“You said you were by the GCPD?” she asks, and he nods. “I told them those fire escapes aren't clean. Someone could really get hurt.”

Bruce isn't sure if she's being truthful or kind, but there's no reason to damage Richard's ego more than it already is. He pulls up a stool from nearby and sits, watching as Lee continues to clean and soothe Richard's burn, and some of the redness begins to fade. And to his credit, he's being very still and calm as she handles the sensitive skin.

“They're really slimy,” he says, a bit delayed but Lee seems to understand what he means. She agrees with a nod, and she starts wrapping some fresh gauze on his palm. “Holy cow that feels better.”

“Try to not move it too much while it heals. It'll still sting if you do.”

“Yes ma'am!” He offers her his uninjured hand and she chuckles to herself, taking it and giving him a firm shake. “No trapeze for me.”

“Probably a good idea,” she says. “I'm going to steal Batman from you for a little bit alright? He'll be right back.”

“What did I do?” Bruce jokes. She rolls her eyes and leads him away by an elbow. Once they're in a quiet space of the lab he whispers to her. “Thank you, Lee.”

“I’m happy to help. Is this the young man Jim told me about?”

“Jim told you about Robin?”

“More or less. Not his name, but I know he's in been learning about crime fighting from the two of you, and he's fifteen. Kind of young to start training a sidekick.”

Bruce glances back at Richard, noting the way he's watching them before ducking his head, only to peek back over as subtly as he can manage. “He's not my sidekick, not yet at least. He's too young.”

“So we agree on that at least.”

“He just wants to help, and I can't spend my whole day watching over him. This is a compromise. He has a penchant for finding trouble, or for it landing in his lap, it's hard to say. We're trying to give him a fighting chance.” Bruce watches the irritation fade to worry on Lee's face. “I made plenty of foolish mistakes at his age, and if we can stop him from making a few of those he'll be alright. You could talk to him if you want to, maybe teach him some first aid.”

“Let’s not overwhelm him too much.” She looks past Bruce's shoulder to Richard and shakes her head fondly. “Just tell him to call 911. Or Jim, if he's going to keep falling right next to the GCPD.”

“I’m not sure he could handle the embarrassment. He didn't even tell me he'd fallen until you were here.”

“Better work on his pride next then, if you don't want him shaking off any broken bones for the sake of his teenage ego.”

-

_Day twenty-five_

Bruce arrives at the GCPD to pick up Richard, but when he gets into Jim's office he's nowhere to be found. Instead Jim waves Bruce over, urgent and looking stressed, and Bruce follows, a sense of worry filling his chest. “Is Richard alright?”

“I called him, told him to stay home. Look, some of the early morning beats are reporting ice in uptown. Crazy amounts of it. No one's been hurt so far but I think we both know what this means.”

“Victor,” Bruce whispers. “It has to be a message of some sort.”

“That’s what I thought. I told everyone to back off and keep the area secure. No other neighborhoods have reported ice so I think he's well contained.”

“I'll go immediately,” he says. He doesn't have his suit, but he does have a few gadgets and smoke bombs. “Your distress signal hasn't gone off has it?”

“No. Strange might've confiscated it, or maybe he tossed it himself.” Jim goes over to his closet and pulls out a bullet proof vest. “Here, borrow this.”

“I don't think I'll need it,” he says, but Bruce slips it on anyway over his sweatshirt. “I'll tell you once I've recovered him.”

“This might be our only chance,” Jim says. Bruce nods. “I don't have to remind you to be cautious.”

“I know what to expect,” Bruce assures him. It's not entirely true but it also isn't entirely false. “I'll get him.”

-

Uptown is uncharacteristically deserted, although based on the giant, dripping sheets of ice on several blocks’ worth of buildings it's because Victor is making a lot of noise. Bruce parks the Batmobile in a far alley and walks into the empty street, listening for feet scraping or, worst case scenario, some sort of speaker system ready to bombard him with the cascade phrase. So far he hears nothing aside from the drips and a few clicks.

Clicks. Bruce follows the sound, moving slowly and quietly, and he sees a concentration of ice up ahead. Thick, slippery pillars block half the entrance to an alley, and Bruce slips past them. The sheer volume of ice is enough to chill the air, and Bruce is thankful for the sweatshirt. He moves along the wall, eyes scanning above and up ahead, and when he turns the corner of the alley he sees him, huddled near a trash bin and clutching his freeze gun, which he's managed to repair. The sound of Bruce's shoes on ice alerts him, and he startles, gun up and firing.

Bruce ducks to the side, feinting and grabbing a smoke bomb from his pocket and throwing it at Victor. The alley fills with thick smoke and Victor coughs.

Bruce moves onto a nearby fire escape ladder and watches the blurry form in the smoke turn every which way, firing off a few random shots of ice in the process. He's startled, clearly, but it might be a good sign.

“Victor,” Bruce shouts into the alley below. “I'm here to help.”

"Where are you!” he shouts back. “Show yourself!”

Another good sign. Strange was never so disordered when he sent Victor out on a job, and Victor is vocal, speaking his mind. He's in control for now.

“Set down your gun,” Bruce says calmly. “We're not going to fight here, not now. I think you know that.”

Victor's form backs into a wall and he fires off another shot from the surprise. He drops it, gun clattering, and Bruce takes the opportunity to hop down and move closer, slowly. The way Victor's holding his head is alarming, and he presses his goggles into his eyes. “You need to go,” he forces himself to say. It's choppy, and he grits his teeth when more words try to form. “Go!”

“You called attention to yourself here because you wanted me to come,” Bruce says just as forcefully. He grabs one of Victor's arms, and the weak struggle he puts up feels half-hearted at best. “Victor listen to me. You don't have to speak, but try to answer. Did Strange send you out here today?” He shakes his head, brief, and he winces again. “I'm going to help you. We have a way to break Strange's control. Just hold on for a few minutes.”

“It's coming back,” he winces. Bruce makes him move his other hand so he can pull up Victor's goggles. His pupils aren't dilated far, but they're uneven.

“Listen to me,” Bruce says, “Victor, you've fought it before. Focus on my voice. We're going to my home, and you'll be free of his control. You'll be safe, and Nora is there,” he tells him this over and over. “You fought his control, and you got her out safely. We found her.”

“You-”

“Yes, I have Nora at my home, and she's,” he trails off, watching Victor's eyes dilate wide, and his arms go slack. “Victor, listen to me,” he holds his arms, but Victor doesn't fight back. He blinks at Bruce, slowly, calmly, and Bruce blanches. “No,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry,” he says, watching for signs that he's wrong, that Victor is still in control of himself, but he only blinks slowly, waiting. “You have to understand this wasn't my intention.” _Although it might be the lesser of two evils_ , he thinks. “If you're willing, pick up your gun and follow me, please.”

Victor does as he's told, which is distressing, but Bruce can't dwell right now. Victor is vulnerable in this state and they need to move fast. He doesn't fight Bruce when he begins leading him out of the alley and down the street, eyes wide and pliant, trusting, and Bruce has to swallow down some bile.

He taps his communicator a few times as he ushers Victor to the passenger side of his vehicle. “Jim, Victor is in my custody.”

“That was fast,” he comments. “No damage done?”

“Minimal,” Bruce says. _Devastating,_ he thinks. He whispers to Victor to buckle up and he starts the engine. “I'm taking him to my home, and we'll figure out our next move once we're there.”

“I'll be there,” Jim says, and the line clicks.

“I'm sorry,” Bruce whispers again. Victor doesn't respond, but he angles his head towards Bruce, looking calm and at peace. He hopes there's a hint of genuine forgiveness behind the blank slate, but it could be wishful thinking.


	20. Chapter 20

“July sixth, my attempt to increase production by thirty percent was a success. All tests indicate no loss of purity. The available supply is at a steady growth rate of five percent per batch. I suspect,” Ed pauses, setting down his recorder when he hears the screeching of tires on the other end of the Batcave. He double checks his equipment, and once he's determined that nothing is demanding of his attention he gets up off his stool and begins making his way across the cave and over to the entrance.

Bruce's vehicle is parked a bit unevenly, but otherwise appears untouched. Ed watches Bruce get out, can see his lips moving but can't white read them at this angle, and he gasps softly when he sees Victor Fries emerging from the passenger side. A cursory glance behind him confirms that Nora is not in the lab, probably for the best at the moment.

Bruce sees Ed and motions him over; he's leaning heavily on the driver's side, and when Ed gets closer he can see Bruce is ashen, and possibly nauseated. “He's not going to hurt anyone, but something went wrong.”

“Wrong how, exactly?” He watches Victor out of the corner of his eye, noting the calm demeanor, the comfortable but proper posture, and the way his eyes are dilated. “Wait…”

“I didn't know,” Bruce insists. He gulps air, squeezing his eyes tightly and grimacing. “Something I said, it must have overlapped with his phrase. He was fighting the control, and then he did this,” Bruce gestures to Victor, and Ed takes it as permission to stare openly. Victor regards him with zero interest, but he thinks he can see a bit of recognition in the way his lip twitches slightly. Irritation, maybe.

“We need to break the control all the same,” Ed says. “I’m sure he doesn't blame you. The fact that he's not fighting-”

“Ed I can't listen to justifications right now,” Bruce says in a rush. “Please, just help me.”

He's begging, pleading for Ed to, what, take charge? He supposes it's easy enough. “You'll have to instruct him,” Ed says. “I'll get the taser. Meet me by the cold room.”

Bruce moves around the car and Ed moves as fast as he's able, trying to half jog through the Batcave and over to Bruce's equipment storage. He can hear Bruce talking from somewhere behind him, and while he searches the shelving and drawers another voice joins him. Jim, it seems, has decided to provide aid. Ed hopes this means Lee isn't far behind him.

He pulls open another drawer and finds the taser in the far back behind a few damaged batarangs. Ed tests it once, letting it shock the air briefly before he moves over to join the trio near the cold room.

“It's going to hurt, but only briefly, and it will break Strange's,” Bruce pauses, clearly uncomfortable, “ _ the  _ control will be broken. So please Victor, if you'll just remove your suit we can administer the shock, and you'll be free of it.”

There's a jerking stiffness when Victor's arm starts to move, then stops. Ed can't see his expression, but based on Bruce's distress Victor isn't as willing as they hoped. He backs away from Bruce a few steps, one hand loosely curled around the bulk of his freeze gun, the other struggling to not undo any of the suit’s clasps.

“Victor we're not trying to trick you, please,” Bruce steps forward a few steps, and Victor keeps barreling backwards until Ed can see his wild eyes, and the way he's regretting putting his trust in any of them. “It will only take a few moments.”

“He doesn't look like he wants to play ball,” Jim says. He's keeping a loose posture, but Ed can see the panicked breathing through the bulk of Victor's suit. “Listen to Bruce, Victor. You're among friends.”

“This room was built in order to provide you with somewhere safe to stay,” he gestures to the door to the cold room. “Minus twenty, just like you told me.”

“You hear that? Guy built a freezer for you. Doesn't sound like a guy that wants to hurt you for no reason.” Jim steps a single step closer and Victor nearly runs into Ed.

He startles, looking, and probably feeling, cornered, and he backs against the wall, gun still pointed lazily towards Bruce. Ed glances to Jim and Bruce and their twin distressed expressions, and then he turns back to Victor and his obvious panic. Ed takes a deep breath and lets it out, muttering, “I recommend you don't clenched your jaw,” before administering the shock to Victor's exposed neck.

Jim moves first, coming over and moving the gun away, and then Bruce joins in, stopping for a moment to give Ed a dirty look before he and Jim help Victor to the floor. Ed steps back and switches off the taser, nodding in satisfaction.

“The suit is failing,” Bruce says. Obviously. Some of the wiring gives off a few weak sputters and there's a bit of smoke coming off the main power supply. “Jim if you could please help, we need to get him out of his suit and inside.” Bruce behind undoing some of the clasps while Jim moves to the door. “That was foolish,” Bruce tells him. “His suit is probably ruined.”

“I was under the impression that you built this  _ room  _ in case that happened,” Ed snaps back. He remains defiant when Jim gives him a weary look. “He was panicking. You clearly weren't making any headway. I took the next logical step.” Ed huffs with irritation when no apology comes his way. “I'd like you to know  _ his  _ next logical step was firing that gun off in here, if that wasn't obvious.”

“Another time, Ed,” Jim says. “Have some tact, huh? And help me with this.”

Ed's cheeks flush, but he nods. He eases himself to the floor as Victor begins coming to, watching as his eyes blink open and noting the shrinking pupils.

“Are you alright Victor?” Bruce asks gently. He and Jim have managed to open up the top half of his suit, and Ed focuses on detaching the internal coolant system around his chest. Somewhat surprisingly, he's wearing underthings. He'd wrongly assumed it was all or nothing with the suit.

“Hot,” he whispers. He grimaces when Jim tugs off his boots and Ed detaches the ruined cabling around his chest. “Too hot.”

“The cold room is outfitted to keep you comfortable until your suit is repaired.”

“And for the future I've actually been improving your personal coolant system,” Ed says, “and once you have time I'd like to pick your brain on that coolant you use.”

“Not now, Ed,” Jim says, and he grits his teeth.

“Right,” Ed whispers. He moves to the side to let Victor sit up with some aid from Bruce. Sweat is already collecting on his brow, and even once he's wormed his way free from his suit fully he's panting as if it's sweltering in the cave-like environment.

“Could you open the door please,” Bruce asks Ed. He and Jim help Victor off the floor, and Ed forces himself up quickly, ignoring the twinge in his knee. The door latch is heavy, and it won't budge at first, but Ed squares his shoulders and puts his full weight into it.

“I don't want to rush but I'm dying a little out here,” Victor says.

“One second,” Ed grunts as he moves the door an inch. “This is an excellent moment to praise the seal of this door-”

“Victor?” It's Nora. Ed gives it his all and finally pushes the latch open. He stands to the side to allow Victor to enter, but his attention has shifted. Ed turns towards Nora, and watches the way she begins backing away, and makes a mental note: interesting development, but not very positive for Victor's sake.

“Nora,” he calls out to her, lurches towards her and tries to get her to come back, but she keeps moving away, one hand clutching the handle of her air canister tightly and the other hand covering her mouth in shock. Ed feels a strange swell of protectiveness and steps closer to her, keeping a close eye on Victor. “Nora, wait-” he wheezes, and he has to close his eyes from the strain breathing is causing him.

“Victor your temperature is far too high,” Bruce says. He and Jim help Victor stay upright when the heat makes his legs buckle, and Victor watches, distraught, as Nora hurries away. “You have time on your side, but for now please go inside the cold room.”

“What’s the point,” he says under his breath, but he allows Bruce and Jim to help him to the door, and once the gust of freezing air hits his face he's able to enter on his own. Ed watches through the single window on the front of the room, one of the many homey touches put into the design, along with countless of Ed's valuable time researching materials that remained relatively pliant at minus twenty. Victor's holding his elbows and looking around the room, faint surprise softening his sour expression.

“I’m sure it's a welcome change,” Bruce says. Ed turns away from the window and nods in agreement. “I was somewhat harsh a moment ago.”

“And I was quite possibly rash,” he counters. “What comes next?”

“I honestly don't know,” Bruce admits. “Jim, I do have one request for the GCPD.”

“For all we know Victor's left the country,” he says, sidling up to Bruce's right side. “Keep me posted. That's all I ask.”

“He isn't going anywhere until we complete his portable cooler or repair the suit,” Ed reminds him. “Until then he's not really going anywhere. What keeps you going, what keeps you safe, what stops foolish decisions from leading the way?”

“Self preservation,” Jim sighs. “Something you all seem to  _ lack _ , if I’m being honest. Just an observation.”

“He won't try to leave,” Bruce says. “It would kill him if he did so without the suit. And Nora is here. He'll want to know she's safe firsthand.”

Ed considers bringing up the less than enthusiastic reunion they just shared, but Jim told him to have some  _ tact,  _ so he keeps his mouth shut. It is surprising, seeing someone alive. And he can understand her initial reaction to Victor's new appearance. Photos don't really do it justice.

“Well if that changes let me know. Ed,” he nods in farewell, and Ed smiles briefly in response before turning back to Victor's, well ‘enclosure’ is harsh and a bit inaccurate but the way he's still apparently struggling to do anything but stare at the room makes it feel that way.

“He hasn't been himself for some time,” Bruce says. “It's terrifying, being thrown back into yourself after so long. He'll need time.”

“And Miss Thompkins,” Ed says. “For someone who's cut ties with Gotham’s rogues she certainly is around them a great deal.”

“You shouldn't consider yourself a rogue anymore,” Bruce says.

“Some things stick with you,” he whispers. When Victor turns and looks at the two of them through the window he shivers. “I'm going to pick his brain for information about his coolant eventually. Not now, of course.”  _ Tact _ , he thinks. He'll give Victor some time to settle. A couple weeks, maybe. He's bound to get stir crazy in such a small space.

“There might be some benefit in speaking sooner rather than later,” Bruce counters. “It would give him something to work on, something small but important, and it's helpful to him.”

“I'll pull out the blueprints.”

-

“July eighth, I have finalized my changes to Victor's coolant system, excluding any necessary changes related to the coolant. Following a, let's say unproductive talk with Miss Thompkins, he's been somewhat despondent, and everyone agrees that finishing the cooling system will aid in his recovery, given that the closed off, somewhat restrictive nature of being confined to the freezer being somewhat detrimental.”

He sets aside his recorder and drags a knit hat over his head, then he loops a scarf around his neck and chin. He's not a fan of the cold, and being inside the freezer for even a few minutes without proper clothing could prove incredibly detrimental to his health. Once he's pulled on his coat and gloves he removes his glasses and sets them on a nearby table. He blinks at the blurriness, but they'll be of no use to if he wore them inside, at least not after he exits the freezer.

The door is heavy, like always, and Ed struggles to open the latch, but once he's inside he closes it tightly, unwilling to let too much of the cold air outside and any warm air in. Victor's room is a single room with a small alcove recessed into the corner between the back and a side wall, and that's where Ed finds him, lying on his back on the bed and staring up at the ceiling. He's been keeping the lights dim, and the soft shadows give the room an ethereal feel. Ed's breath creates a substantial condensation cloud whenever he exhales, even through the thick warmth of his scarf.

“If the temperature isn't to your liking it can be adjusted,” Ed says. He's not sure how else to  _ break the ice  _ with Victor. Offering some autonomy seems like a good start.

“No,” is all he says. His breath doesn't create any clouds, interesting. So much of Ed wants to study Victor's altered homeostatic baselines, but it sounds like a very  _ Strange _ thing to want, so he pushes the desires aside.

“I researched synthetic materials,” Ed says instead, pulling a nearby chair over so he can sit. The cold is seizing up his knee, as he'd feared. “Some become stiff and uncomfortable in the cold. I had time to delve a bit deeper, and found some suitable for a bed,” Ed gestures to the bed he's using, “and a few other comfort items. Apologies on the spartan decorating job. There were a few other priorities, you understand I'm sure.”

Victor's expression is still blurry and indistinct, but he hasn't told Ed to go away or “leave him the hell alone" so he assumes he's making some progress. And he's looking in Ed's general direction, unlike the stoic, stiff jawed expression he'd had for the brief time Lee was inside. Ed had, admittedly, been told not to observe the session, but he was thankful he did, because the way he'd snapped at Lee had her barreling towards the door with genuine fear in her expression.

_ Acceptance _ , he thinks,  _ seems a tad premature.  _ Although no one ever said the man wasn't quick to despair. He's already barreled himself through the five stages of grief in two day’s time.

But if he has finished whatever grief he thinks he's earned that means he might be receptive to Ed's request.

“If you aren't busy,” a formality because he hasn't done  _ anything  _ in two days, but Lee told him to give every suggestion to Victor that he  _ does  _ have control of his life again, “I have a request for you. In my spare time I've been looking at the schematics for your compact cooling system, but you neglected to include the actual coolant in the instructions, or anywhere, actually. It's a bit of an oversight on your part. But if you remember the chemical makeup I can begin producing more, and we can have you up and about in, let's say a couple weeks, provided you use your expertise to answer any other questions that I may have.”

Victor says nothing, but Ed remains patient. It's a lot to take in on top of everything else, and there's no reason, “Victor?”

He's rolled away from Ed, thoroughly ignoring him and his request. Ed stays for a bit longer, watching the vague outline of Victor's chest as he breathes evenly, but when he gets no response Ed sighs and stands, grunting when his knee tries to lock up and using the wall to aid in his retreat.

-

“July tenth, I've given Victor two days to decide whether or not he wishes to give me his formula. I am going back inside in order to determine whether or not he's willing to listen to my plea and give me what I asked for.”

Ed sets down his recorder and zips up his coat. He enters the cold room, this time with his glasses firmly in place. Parsing Victor's reaction was difficult without full use of his vision, and he's hoping to learn more this time, even if it means a bit of temporary blindness upon exiting the freezer.

“Victor, I gave my proposal a little thought, and I'd like to reiterate a few things I'd assumed were understood between us. First, I only ask for your formula in order to use what you've found to be most efficient in cooling yourself down. Second, I understand your reluctance to share the formula because of its destructive potential. But if you'll just extend a bit of trust my way I swear to you that not even a drop of the coolant will go towards anything other than your personal use.”

Victor is on the bed today, again, although Ed  _ knows  _ he's gotten up at least once. The food Alfred brought down was eaten at some point, and his shirt is of a different cut, something a bit more snug and flattering for being just a tee shirt. In any case he's shown at least some semblance of autonomy, and Ed wants to capitalize on that, but it's proving a bit more difficult than he'd hoped.

“Your silence isn't exactly enlightening.”

“It is,” he says, “just not the way you want.”

Ed huffs. “I am offering, free of charge, a way to  _ leave this room _ . Is that unclear?”

“Your glasses are fogging up,” he says, as if Ed wasn't  _ aware. _ Ed waits another moment, and when once again Victor turns around to face the wall Ed leaves, grumbling obscenities under his breath.

-

“July twelfth. I am exercising a great deal of patience,” he angrily pulls on his boots while leaning in towards his recorder, “but his reluctance to aid in my research is  _ maddening _ . I am going to attempt, again, to get Victor Fries to tell me his formula.”

Ed storms into the freezer with a substantial amount of ire in his expression. He finds Victor on the damn bed  _ again  _ and he nearly throws him off it the moment he steps inside. Victor doesn't even feign surprise when Ed sits down again and angrily scoots his chair in closer. “I am  _ trying  _ to help you.  _ Apparently  _ that also wasn't clear the first  _ ten times  _ I told you that, so I'll say it once more.  _ I. Am. Trying. To. Help. You. _ Understand?”

“No.”

“What do you mean no!?” he shrieks. Ed stands up from the chair when he can't contain himself. “I have spent  _ hours  _ working to improve your life! I worked tirelessly day in and day out to produce a drug that's keeping your wife  _ alive. _ It was  _ me  _ that sent a party to recover her from the warehouse. All I am asking is for a bit of  _ closure  _ for my projects, just one little piece of information that I need from  _ you. _ Is it supercharged helium? A blend? Something you synthesized in a dream!? Tell me!”

He stands there, catching his breath, and Victor just  _ sighs _ . Ed could  _ strangle  _ him right here and now. “You aren't trying to help me.”

“I just gave several pieces of evidence to the contrary, but  _ fine _ , I'll let you win this one. Happy? Now tell me.”

“What good is progress if it's pointless?”

Ed actually pauses at that, and he steps back a moment. “Come again?”

“I'm a wanted criminal. A domestic terrorist. There's nothing outside this room for me.” He rolls towards the wall. “So don't waste your time.”

“Nora-”

“Doesn't want anything to do with me.” He curls up just a bit tighter, and Ed feels some sympathy, even if he doesn't fully believe him. “Don't waste your breath.”

Ed chuffs, and wipes at his mouth with his glove. He offers up what must feel like an awkward sympathetic pat to Victor's shoulder, then he leaves the freezer without another word.

-

“You have to talk to him,” Ed demands as he slams the door open to a small office Lee's taken residence in for her stints at the Manor, and he shrinks a little from the startled look she gives him. Right, be cordial, be concise. “Victor, I mean. He's being belligerent.”

“How about you sit down,” Lee says, pointing to the chair with her pen. Ed nods and slides into the chair across from her desk. “Start over for me, without the shouting.”

“Right,” Ed takes a steadying breath and begins, “As you are aware I am attempting to recreate Victor's personal cooling system, which is a more compact system than his suit, and allows for more mobility. But he never recorded the formula for his coolant, or he destroyed the records, in any case,” he waves a hand dismissively, “I can't finish it until he gives it to me, but he has refused every request I've made to date. I could begin a blind search, but it could take  _ years  _ to recreate something adequate from scratch. So I need you to talk some sense into him. He clearly doesn't understand what I'm offering to  _ do  _ for him or he would have told me already.”

Lee regards him with open sympathy, something that makes Ed's chest itch with discomfort. He coughs into his hand, and fidgets a bit with his hands. She talks softly, once she breaks he silence. “You're frustrated because he won't let you help him.”

“Yes.” Ed isn't sure where this is going but he's decided he doesn't like it.

“Ed, I know you and Bruce know better than anyone what Victor's gone through, but none of us know how long he was under Strange's control, or if there was anything else he had to endure. He needs time. What you're suggesting I do is force therapy on him, and I'm not going to do that.”

Ed is quiet for another beat, and he addresses the floor when he responds. “That wasn't my intention.”

“I know.” Hence the sympathy. Hence this horrible itching in his chest. “But he needs to be the one to decide he wants help, not you or me, or anyone but himself.” She taps her pen a few times against the top of the desk, and asks, “what do you do to cheer yourself up?”

“I don't see why that's relevant.”

“Humor me.”

Ed scowls at her, but he sighs and does as she asks. “I work. Or I read.”

“You keep yourself busy.”

“Which is something I've already told you-” she holds up a hand and he huffs. “I already told you all of this.”

“What does Victor do?” Ed opens his mouth, but he pauses, confusion creasing his brow. His mouth clicks when he shuts it, at a loss for an answer. “You don't know?”

Ed shakes his head. “Oswald might, but they weren't exactly close.”

“I’m not actually trying to get an answer, I'm just proving a point. You like to keep yourself busy, but maybe Victor doesn't. Maybe doing nothing is what he needs right now. And even if it isn't you don't need to pile more onto yourself.” She folds her hands and rests her chin on them, and she's smiling. He isn't smiling back. Ed never intended for this to become a session. “But if he's willing to hear you demand his help he might be willing to talk to me, so I'll give him the option again. Does that sound like a good start to you?”

“I suppose,” he agrees. He's reluctant to do so but he can tell when he's not going to get his way. It's rather disappointing. “I need to return to work.”

He stands up to leave, but Lee makes him freeze up when she asks, “are you feeling guilty about anything?”

He turns back around and leans in the chair, lip twitching as he tries to say that no, he isn't guilty. That would mean he's done something  _ guilt worthy _ in the recent past. But he is frustrated, because he's trying to  _ help  _ Victor and no one seems to want him to.

Oh.

“His confinement is due to my,” he pauses, “rash decision.”

“Did you consider your insistence to help might be so you can undo that?” He does  _ now _ . Ed looks at the floor and seethes quietly. “Give him time.”

Ed nods and turns away again, intending to leave before Lee manages to turn this into a full session, but he turns back and blurts out, “there's nothing for him outside the room.”

That  _ does  _ make her look worried. Good.  _ Better him than me _ . “What do you mean by that?”

“His words, not mine. Nora's reaction to his altered state,” he laughs to himself, “well, she's decided to give him the cold shoulder.” Ed turns back to the door and grabs the handle.

“If you want to help Victor now,” she starts, and he turns his head, “you could talk to her. He's spent half his life dedicated to her.”

“I can't see what good that will do.” Ed smiles briefly at Lee and opens the door. “Have a nice afternoon.”

“You're her friend,” Lee says as he crosses the threshold, and he pauses only briefly before finally retreating.

-

“July thirteenth, I am returning my focus to improving production,” Ed says briefly before setting his recorder on the lab bench. He glances over at his white board to triple check his calculations before returning his attention to his beakers.

He keeps expecting company as he works, but Nora hasn't been down in the lab for nearly a week, and Victor's room is far enough that Ed can barely see inside. Victor isn't in the window anyway; he never is.

Ed taps play on his tablet and fills his small space with some quiet music, something a bit somber today, slower. He's not about to rush himself when he's never worked on a batch quite this large before.

His rhythm feels off, and more than once Ed winces as glass clinks together while he works. It's sloppy lab work, and potentially dangerous for himself and for Nora. Not that he's allowed the supply to dwindle. She has enough for him to mess up for at least two months straight, maybe more if Lee decides her dose can be lowered. But he holds himself up to a higher standard than his current mediocre performance. He's making mistakes he hasn't made since he was an  _ undergrad _ , and he finds the backslide more than a little upsetting.

“Sometimes I wish you'd show back up,” he tells his shadow self, although he knows he can't really hear, “just so I can know what thoughts you'd have. It's more difficult to parse out any concerns when my thoughts are all in one place.”

He turns to the black screen of his tablet and stares, waiting for his reflection to try to startle him somehow, or maybe he'd prefer using a larger surface to appear more commanding. Regardless, he doesn't show, and Ed sighs in relief.

But then his phone rings, and he jumps, spilling some of his solvent onto the counter. He swears as the liquid tries to run under some of his equipment, and by the time he's mopped up the mess his phone has stopped ringing.

And it starts again. He tosses his gloves off in irritation and grabs his phone from his back pocket.

“If he's calling because he can't find something I swear-” Ed pauses, heart hammering in his chest when he reads the word unlisted, but he accepts the call and holds it up to his ear. “Hello?”

“I don't like being stood up Eddie,” Barbara hisses at him, and he shivers. “And here I thought you understood what I meant by see you soon, but I guess not.”

“I have no desire to see you,” Ed snaps at her. He moves away from his equipment and into a quiet space near the stairs. If need be, he can shout up to someone for assistance. “Artificial or otherwise. Your new boss and I don't really see eye to rose colored lenses.”

“I like to think of us as  _ partners _ ,” Barbara coos. “Without me your cute little spy network would still be up! He needs my power and my men!”

“I doubt that,” Ed says quietly. Maintain calm, let her be the one to lash out.

“Do you think  _ clones  _ could wipe out a whole grid!?” There’s a quiet gasp and Ed reiterates her outburst in his head, committing it to memory. He scrawls it on the wall using a pen for good measure, and stares at the words.

“Clones? Interesting. I am half of a whole, a yin to a yang. What am I, Barbara?” He smiles to himself when she's silent. “The right answer is a twin, but clone fits well enough.”

“You want to hear something better?” she snaps. “I didn't just dismantle your little network  _ Eddie _ . I took it, and I made it  _ mine.  _ Guess who has eyes all over Gotham now?” His chest feels like he swallowed some of Victor's coolant. “You can't hide behind Oswald forever,” she singsongs.

“I don't hide behind him.”

“Oh, you do. But don't worry honey, because he won't be standing tall much longer.” She hums. “I bet you think you're both  _ so  _ clever staying away from home.” Ed gulps quietly. “He looks so cozy up there. Second floor right?”

“You're lying,” he says, low and simmering with anger. “That's vague at best, Barbara. You're reaching.” He's telling himself that more than her but she doesn't need to know. He takes a deep breath. “If you knew you would have already sent your men after us.”

She harrumphs, and Ed smiles, sighing with relief. Strange hasn't told her everything, it seems.  _ Partners _ , he thinks,  _ laughable. _

And interesting.

He laughs to himself. “Want to hear something funny?”

“I thought riddles were more your thing,” she says, composure restored. For now.

“I'll make an exception.” And he says it, the cascade, he says it back to her, intent clear and spiteful and oh so delightful. He blocks out his own hearing as much as he's able, focusing on the quiet hum of recycled air and equipment beeps.

And she laughs. He imagines her dramatically wiping her eyes, and that damned  _ smile  _ she gets when she's gotten the upper hand. “It's cute when you try to use my own weapons against me.”

“You're working with him voluntarily,” he says, gritting his teeth.

“That's right honey.  _ Now  _ you're starting to catch up.”

“Why,” he demands. “For what purpose.”

“I'd worry more about you right about now, since you just wasted your trump card.” She laughs. Ed clenches his jaw and hangs up the phone with Barbara's manic laughter still loud in his ears.


	21. Chapter 21

“Alfred, have you seen any sign of Richard at the Manor?” Not that Richard should know how to get there, given his very sincere vow to maintain Bruce's privacy, but that doesn't stop a curious young man from stealing a peek at a nearby street sign and extrapolating from there.

“I haven't seen hide nor hair of young Mr. Grayson, sir. I was under the impression that you were retrieving him.”

“He hasn't shown up at the GCPD yet,” Bruce says. He scans the ground below once again, and the rooftops for good measure. “I'll double check with Jim, and if he also hasn't seen him, I may have to pay his home a visit.”

Or possibly Lee at the hospital if he's not there. He's a bit worried Richard got a bit too brazen now that he's in training and got in over his head, but he's been showing so much promise with his critical thinking sessions with Jim. Bruce hopes he's just gotten distracted, or lost track of time.

Or, if he is at the hospital, that it's because he's had an accident during his circus practices and not anything more sinister. Broken bones hurt but they heal, and anything less minor than that wouldn't slow him down, given Richard's can do, will do attitude. He's certainly resilient, like many boys his age.

When another few minutes pass and Richard doesn't show, he taps his communicator to call Jim.

“Aren't you on the roof?” is the first question Jim asks before Bruce can even say hello.

Bruce laughs once. “I suppose I'm preoccupied. Has Richard appeared anywhere downstairs in your office? Or in the main rooms of the GCPD?”

“Not that I've seen or heard.” Jim hums, concerned. “Kind of unusual for him to be this late.”

“I'll go check his home,” Bruce says. He's fully outfitted tonight; he'd wanted to use the city proper for some first hand critical thinking practice, but now he's just glad he can grapple and glide his way towards downtown without having to fight any heavy traffic.

It's somewhat late when he arrives outside Richard's house, but there are several lights on in the home. The circus is quite literally a stone's throw away, and inside the main tent Bruce can hear a bit of laughter and some bombastic talking. Practice, maybe, or possibly a smaller show.

It feels strange to just  _ knock _ , so Bruce peers into the main room of the single story house in the hopes that he'll see Richard inside. There's no TV, but he can see several plush looking chairs and beanbags, and the wall is filled with memorabilia from circuses from around the globe. However, Richard isn't there, so Bruce moves on towards the circus tent.

Inside there's no crowd but there are plenty of performers: clowns half dressed arguing over the height of whipped cream, the ringleader practicing his speeches and some jokes, and high above there's the acrobats, practicing some tightrope walks and a few swings.

Richard is sitting on one of the high platforms, one leg dangling over the edge with his foot bouncing along with the music, and as a swing bar comes at him he hops up and grabs on, swinging along across to the second platform and landing gracefully on his feet. It looks like a warm-up, nothing strenuous or terribly difficult, and based on the sour expression on his face he'd rather be elsewhere.

Bruce tucks himself into a back corner to keep watching, and he smirks when Richard crouched around something in his hand, and a moment later Bruce's communicator begins beeping in his ear. He moves outside the tent and taps the button. “Hello Robin.”

“Ah! I am  _ so  _ late! I'm okay, I'm sorry, holy cow my dad has no  _ idea  _ how bad his timing is.”

“Don't worry, I'm just glad you're safe.”

Richard is quiet for a few moments, but Bruce can just barely hear the woosh of air as he, presumably, swings across to the other platform without dropping the line. “Sorry, had to take my turn.”

“Could you spare a few moments? I don't mind having to cancel your training tonight, I just want to speak with you.”

Richard frets, whining very softly before he whispers, “I can't go in the middle of practice.”

“Not even to the bathroom?”

“Holy,” he laughs with disbelief, “I'm not that fast. I can't get to the GCPD in one bathroom break.”

“How about outside the tent?”

Richard is quiet again. “How'd you know I'm in the tent?”

“Just come and see.”

Bruce doesn't have to wait long before he can hear tennis shoes scuffing against the gravel, and Richard appeared, red faced and panting, and he smiles. “Wow, you came all the way here?”

“I was worried when you didn't show.” Bruce motions to a space a bit more off the beaten path and Richard follows. Richard keeps his hands shoved in his jacket pockets. “They don't make you wear a uniform during practice?”

“I grew a little, so it doesn't fit anymore.” He shrugs. “I was going to call! But I thought maybe I could leave early. My dad said I've been neglecting the routine though, so I don't think he'll let me.”

Bruce smiles and kneels so he can look Richard in the eye. “I can think of another reason why he wants you at practice,” Bruce says. “You're his son. He wants to spend time with you.”

“Oh,” Richard nods. “That makes sense. He was all, 'Dick you're going to forget how to fly’, but it didn't really make since, because I've done this since I was three I think?” He shuffles one foot. “I guess we have to stop training though.”

“Consider this my official approval for you to focus on training with your family.” He holds out a hand. “It's been an honor to train you, Richard Grayson.”

Richard beams and takes Bruce's hand, and he shakes it firmly. “Ho-,” he coughs and reins in his excitement, “it's been an honor for me too!”

-

His evening of training morphs into an evening patrol, but Bruce isn't giving the streets his full attention. He's mildly disappointed that his project is getting put on hold, but Richard is young, and that means he should be doing things with his family at least some of the time.

It just means Bruce finally has the time to address other pressing matters instead of throwing all of his attention on training, which is enjoyable and productive, and doesn't involve difficult conversations with the mother of his future child.

They've hardly spoken except for brief conversations before, and sometimes during, her appointments with Lee, and those leave Bruce feeling hollowed out and nervous, like there's something he's missing or forgotten, but whenever he asks if she feels safe in her apartment she waves him off, and he lets her be. At least, that's been his strategy until tonight.

Bruce sits on the building across the alley from Selina's apartment and watches for a few minutes until he sees her moving about through the kitchen. He jumps to her roof and climbs down the fire escape, and by the time his feet hit the grate, her window is open and she's watching him with a flat expression.

“Hello.”

“Didn't expect company,” she says.

“I was downtown. I thought I'd stop by.” She slips inside and he follows her, pulling his cowl up and off in the process. “You still haven't taken my offer to stay at the Manor again.”

“Yeah, well, I've been busy.” She moves back to the kitchen and pours a glass of milk for herself. “Moving inventory, dealing with dumb newbies trying to get into the biz, that sort of thing.”

“Is it going well?” She gives him a confused look. “What?”

“What are you doing?”

“I'm asking,” he sighs, “I don't know.” He starts removing parts of his armor, and he's relieved when she doesn't object. “We've hardly spoken this past month. I guess I wanted to know that you're all right.”

“Well I'm fine. You don't have to keep checking in on me.” She sits on her couch and watches him over the rim of her glass. He sets the upper torso and arm components of his armor on her table and stretches out his shoulders. He has to sit down on a chair to take off the lower half of his armor, and again he’s thankful she doesn’t seem to protest his attempts to stick around for a few hours.

“I'm trying not to coddle you. You're more than capable, the city just makes me nervous. I don't know who's Strange's ally or not, or if he has anyone else under his control like he had Victor. Plus, with us having rescued Victor and Nora, which I'm sure was Strange's leverage over him, he's possibly going to retaliate. Even a man with his influence and resources feels a blow from losing Victor's knowledge and abilities.”

“Think it's a good idea to be at the Manor if he's going to attack?”

“He won't attack like that,” Bruce says, although he's had more than one nightmare where that is most definitely  _ wrong _ . “It's more of a power grab. He'll go after Victor Zsasz in Arkham, almost certainly. He knows Victor has worked with is, and losing him as an ally would be a blow, logistically and personally.” He never forgive himself if Strange gets to Victor Zsasz. “And there's Ivy on Arkham island, who he's already had under his control once. And Richard, although our training has been suspended. His family missed him.”

“You have been dragging him around a lot lately.” Selina sets her glass aside and a cat almost immediately hops up to lick at the remaining milk still clinging to the sides. “Ivy's doing okay, I guess. She got some lights from Ed.”

“I may need to go see her myself, but I believe you. I just have some requests for her.” Bruce sets aside the rest of his armor and closes his eyes. He rests his head against the back of the chair, sighing when his tense muscles begin to relax. Selina is watching him when he opens his eyes, studying him, maybe trying to figure out what he plans to do next, but he doesn't know, aside from a very simplistic plan to make sure everyone is safe. “Would you be honest with me if I asked you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why are you avoiding me?” She looks away. “I know my,” he searches for a word that feels big enough to encompass everything and comes up empty, “my panic attack, the regression, it scared you. It scared me too, once I knew what it was. And I understood wanting to distance yourself from that s little bit, but I feel better. I talk with Lee, and it feels like it's actually doing something. So did I do something else to scare you off?” He leans forward, pleading, and Selina finally looks back at him. “I’m trying to be better, but I don't know how to do that if you don't tell me.”

“You're stressing me out!” she blurts out, and Bruce blinks with surprise. He waits for her to explain. “During one of my appointments I told Lee I was stressed out and she said it was bad or whatever, and that I should try to “alleviate” it, so I did. I came back here because you're making me feel stressed.”

Bruce is quiet when he finally responds. “I didn't know. I'm sorry.” He presses, “what do I do that makes you feel stressed?”

“I can't explain it, you just  _ do _ .”

That leaves him feeling a bit sick to his stomach, but he accepts her non-explanation for now. There isn't much else he can do. “You're always welcome at the Manor if you change your mind.”

“Maybe. Might want to take advantage of your bathtub again.”

Ha laughs a little, but the humor passes quickly. “I suppose that's fine.” He sighs. “Is my being here bad? I can leave if so.”

“No, it's okay when I'm here,” she gestures to her apartment. Her space. He can understand the comfort it must give her. “And if you think anyone is ever breaking into  _ my  _ apartment think again. You're only here because I let you be here.”

She doesn't realize how comforting that is, but Bruce is sure his expression is rather telling. He blinks faster to keep his watering eyes from overflowing, and he moves off his chair and over to her couch. Selina acts put out when he uses her lap as a pillow, but her hand starts carding through his hair almost immediately once he's settled. He runs a finger over her knee, smoothing the soft fabric down where it's creased from her bent leg.

“Jeez, are you purring? And people say  _ I _ act like a cat,” she teases him, and he closes his eyes.

“Am I going to get kicked in the head while I'm lying here?” He can't feel anything, and he can't remember when you're supposed to start feeling kicks from a baby. She flicks him in the back of the head and whistles innocently when he looks up at her. “When I visit Ivy is there anything I should bring her? Maybe some fertilizer?”

“Maybe. Or you could get her a hammock. All she does is lie in front of the lights.”

“I'll do that,” he says. And he focuses on the feeling of fingers in his hair until it puts him to sleep.

-

Between work and Selina and being the Batman,Bruce doesn’t often find the time to drive his speedboat for leisure, and today isn’t an exception, but he  _ is  _ getting a chance to drive on his way over to Arkham island. It’s sweltering outside, but out on the boat, with the wind blowing strong, it’s cool enough to need a light jacket. He feels refreshed out here, and clean, despite not having time to use Selina’s shower. His sleep was undisturbed, although he definitely woke up a few cat hairs in his mouth.

Ivy’s rigged up a sort of anchor point with her vines, which have grown thick and strong. He taps a few of them, as Selina instructed, and they unfurl, allowing him to guide them along to some of the metal handles and tie points on the left side of the boat. They latch on and curl tightly, and another, even thicker vine descends down the rock face. He’s expected to climb it, and it looks simple enough, with obvious foot and handholds.

Bruce pulls a backpack out of a compartment in one of the seats and slings it onto his back. He grabs ahold of the branches and begins to climb. It isn’t a difficult climb, but he’s regretting his forgetfulness and wishing he had a pair of climbing gloves to counteract some of the needle-like projections on a few of the thicker vines. His armor might be protecting his hands a bit too much. He’s lost some of the protective callus he’d built up over the years.

By the time he reaches the opening in the cliff face he’s sweating, but not overexerted by any means. He takes a moment to look out across to the main portion of the island, and notes the way several thick vines are stretching along the entire side of the rock. She’s doing well, it seems. It gives him hope.

“Ivy?” he calls out to her, moving slowly as vines continue to part the way. “It’s Bruce. Selina told me you’d like a hammock, and possibly some fertilizer.”

She doesn’t answer, but he isn’t deterred. He continues down the main cave tunnel towards the main chamber, squinting into the bright, artificial lighting Ed rigged up for Ivy when she first moved out here. In a recessed portion of the cave wall he finds her lounging and flipping through a gardening magazine.

“Selina brought you some reading material, I take it.”

“The kid did,” she says idly, flipping to the next page and sighing with frustration. “Seriously? Do people really think trees like being grafted together like this?”

Bruce looks down at the picture of what’s being described as a “fruit salad tree” and smiles. “I think they’re more focused on the novelty.”

“If they can afford this they can afford the separate trees,  _ and  _ proper care.” She tosses the magazine aside and gets up, moving about the space and touching plants here and there, whispering under her breath to them and encouraging little sprouts to grow. “Did Selina give you anything for me?”

“Some more magazines I’m sure you’ll get angry at,” he says. “If you want to do something about them I could organize some sort of investigation into plant stress relating to those trees.”

“I’ll fix it myself eventually,” she says, touching a small curling vine and smiling when it reaches out to her. She coos at it, “won’t I baby? I’ll make all those big mean horticulturalists pay.”

It’s still oddly jarring to hear something like that in a voice Bruce usually associates with parents and small children, but Ivy’s treated her plants like her babies for nearly two decades. It isn't the most unusual thing he's seen in Gotham. “Please don’t do anything too rash. Or at least try it my way first.” She sends him an irritated look, but Ivy doesn’t tell him no either. He’ll set up a small group within Wayne Enterprises at his earliest convenience. “I have some other things for you.”

“Oh?” Her irritation melts away, and she moves across the room, bare feet padding against smooth rock until she’s kneeling in front of Bruce’s backpack on the ground. Bruce nods to her and she pulls each thing out carefully, setting aside the small pile of magazines and a catalog for now and focusing on the large hammock Bruce brought for her. “A blanket?”

“A hammock. I’m also offering my services to set it up for you.”

“I got it,” she says, and she spreads it out as far as she can reach. Bruce watches a few vines trail down from the ceiling where they were crowded near a few of the natural holes, and he laughs to himself when they curl around the two ends and stretch the hammock out to its full length. Ivy throws herself into it and it swings back and forth, bouncing down a little from the sudden addition of a full grown woman, but it settles quickly and leaves her in a constant, gentle motion as the vines rock it back and forth.

“I should have known,” he says. “I have one other thing.”

Ivy hops back off and practically skips over to him, holding out her hands expectantly. He smiles, and as he pulls out a few packets of seeds from the front pouch of the bag her eyes light up with delight. She’s already off to the other side of the room, tearing into the packets and cooing at the seeds as she makes them comfortable in their new home.

It feels good, seeing her like this. She’s made the space her own, and the scared, uncertain Ivy he remembers seeing cowering at Selina’s table is nowhere to be found.

“I have a couple questions, once they’re settled,” Bruce says, and Ivy glances up briefly before returning to her babies. “About your plant network. How is it going?”

“I’m in Downtown now,” she says. “ _ Barely _ . Just a teeny tiny bit at the very bottom, but I did it without stretching across the water.”

“That’s fantastic.” Bruce doesn’t ask for details on  _ how  _ she’s able to do that. Pollen maybe. “And you still haven’t seen any signs of Strange in Arkham?”

“He hasn’t set off any of my plants,” she says.

Bruce blinks, and he asks his next question carefully. “Ivy, is there a way he could get here and not set off your plants?”

“No,” she shakes her head, “unless he can get here without being outside ever.”

Bruce can’t think of a way into or out of Arkham that would allow him to do that, but he knows it isn’t impossible either. “Thank you. And thank you for watching out for Victor. He’s safe.”

“So I’m done watching for him?”

“Yes. For now focus your efforts on Strange. And if there’s anything more we can do to help you grow your network feel free to request anything.”

-

As affluent and influential as Bruce Wayne is, it isn't easy to get an audience with Victor Zsasz. Bruce takes the time to change into his armor and cowl, which he'd left in another compartment in his speedboat. The wind does nothing to ward away the heat, and Bruce finds himself contemplating something a bit lighter to wear during the rare heat waves. He can't imagine anything fitting together with the cowl near as well as a full suit though, and he's already sitting in interrogation before he can come up with any sort of alternative with some substance.

He watches as an orderly escorts Victor in through the patient's door, and Bruce is pleasantly surprised when he isn't wearing a straightjacket over his Arkham standard uniform. Victor looks, well, the same, but there's something a bit softer around his eyes. A genuine calm instead of his false bravado.

“Did you bring coffee?” is the frost thing he asks, and Bruce laughs to himself, shaking his head in the negative. “You're killing me B.”

Bruce holds a finger to his mouth and stands, taking a moment to disconnect the cameras like normal before reclaiming his chair opposite Zsasz. “I thought Jim was bringing you coffee.”

“You can't expect a guy to last a whole week off of one cup,” he complains, a bit over the top, but good natured overall.

“You look well.”

Zsasz shrugs one shoulder. “Place is quiet. Well, quiet for Arkham.”

“You're bored, I take it.”

“Gonna  _ die  _ from it BW.” He drops his head into the table and rubs the back of his head with his hands. “There hasn't even been a  _ foodfight. _ ”

“That's unusual,” Bruce says. “Not that specifically, but the quiet is a bit alarming. Describe it, especially the last week.”

He looks up at Bruce, eyeing him suspiciously. “What happened last week?”

Bruce doesn't  _ think  _ anyone is listening in with the camera being disconnected, but to be safe he whispers, “Victor Fries has been recovered. He's no longer under Strange's control.”

“Damn, you’re  _ really  _ holding out on me.” Zsasz leans back in his chair, resting one foot against the table and balancing on the back legs. “I think you’d have to  _ be  _ there to get it. Wanna trade? Got anything aside from bats already whipped up or should we hash out a design?”

“I’m not staying in Arkham.” His skin feels itchy at the thought. “You haven’t seen Strange again, I’m assuming, or you would have told Jim.”

“Naw, guy’s been laying low, I think.”

_ Sensible _ , Bruce thinks,  _ because he’s lost a powerful ally. _ “I don’t think that will change in the near future. Watch out for anything unusual.” Zsasz salutes him with two fingers, and Bruce nods in thanks. “I do have some other questions for you, and I’d appreciate it if you were honest with me.”

“Getting the feeling that I’m not going to want to answer you.”

“Possibly. I wanted to know if you knew of any ways to get in and out of Arkham without actually setting foot outside, at least not on the main grounds.”

Zsasz gets a faintly concerned, somewhat constipated look on his face. He knows something, clearly, but he doesn’t want to say. “Pass.”

“This isn’t a test. Ivy’s plants only detect people if they’re able to come into contact with them,” he says, although again, he doesn’t know the specifics. He assumes it can be indirect contact or the entire grounds would be carpeted in her plants, which would be mildly suspicious. “Is there a way into Arkham that involves the river?”

His grimace, and reluctance to give Bruce a straight answer, is really an answer in itself. But Bruce wants to hear it himself, because if step one for Zsasz is finding a medication that works well for him then step two is clearly presenting itself now. So he sits patiently, content to wait this out as long as Zsasz wants to stall for time.

“Hypothetically,” Zsasz starts, still looking a bit reluctant, but also resigned, clearly aware that he wasn’t going to win this battle, “let’s say that, yeah, you  _ might  _ be onto something BW. Your turn.”

“Where is it? Is there some sort of mechanism that keeps the entryway secret?” If he can find out then he can get Ivy to release some plants there, and even if Strange tries to hide his return to Arkham Bruce and his team will know. Zsasz points at the floor, no, he’s pointing down beneath them, apparently well beneath them. “It’s underwater?”

“Ding ding, you nailed it,” he says, although he isn’t enthusiastic. “Island really screws up your plans on a good day am I right?”

-

Bruce doesn't have time to go somewhere to sulk quietly before he runs into someone, Lee, and he tries to move past her, claiming the water was rough and tired him out, but she sees through him instantly, and Bruce finds himself dressed down in some sweats and sitting in the office he provided her. She's making him a cup of coffee from a maker she must have brought from home, because he doesn't recognize it.

“Are you sleeping here?” he asks before she can ask him anything.

“No, I do that at home. And yes, I'm still going to my job. You can't think  _ Nora  _ has this much paperwork all to herself.” She gestures to several stacks of papers and folders neatly spread out on the desk surface. A few have tabs with last names, and Bruce pointedly forgets them as soon as he's read them, for privacy’s sake.

“I feel like I see you here a lot.”

“Maybe I just want you to know I'm available to talk.” She smiles at him and hands over a steaming mug of coffee, no sugar, small splash of creamer. “Or maybe I got a promotion, and it's more administrative than my last line of work.”

“Congratulations,” he says, frowning when his words sound listless. “That sounded insincere, my apologies. I'm happy for you. I'm sure you'll do well.”

“It's certainly different.” She grabs her own mug of coffee from her desk and sits back in her chair. “I'll be back and forth between Gotham general and Arkham a lot of the time.”

“Arkham?”

“I'm the head of mental health operations. Gotham's been following a slow but steady rate of improvement over the past few years and I intend to keep it going.”

Bruce smiles, and he feels a gentle well of calm overtake some of his anxieties. “I'm glad they've put you in charge. Will you miss working with people?”

“I'll still have patients at the hospital and Arkham, they'll most likely be special cases. People that others don't want to work with.” She sighs. “So much for removing myself from all of this.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be, I'm not. Jim's right. Someone needs to step up and help, and not just you, Bruce. Real change has to happen everywhere, not just in your home.”

“Thank you. You have no idea,” he hears himself getting choked up, and he stops to clear his throat, “this helps a great deal.”

He takes some time to drink his coffee and decompress, and Lee lets him, watching him a bit over the rim of her mug, but mostly just working on her papers, using her free hand to sign and date a few things. It’s fairly uninteresting to watch, but it’s also calming. He sets aside his mug on the edge of her desk and folds his hands in his lap, something he tends to do when he’s ready to speak. Lee sets her pen aside and waits.

“I have some reason to believe that Strange may be sneaking into the Arkham facility undetected. I spoke with Victor-”

“Victor?”

“Zsasz.” He pauses. “You were surprised?”

“I spoke with Victor today. The one in your basement.”

Bruce nods. “I’m glad he was willing to talk with you.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but between the first ten minutes of him telling me I was wasting my time and the second half where he got defensive about “not needing a doctor”,” she air quotes, “he mentioned that you haven’t spoken since you brought him here.”

Bruce looks to the side, searching his recent memory for anything to prove Victor wrong, but he knows he won’t come up with anything. “When I rescued him something happened.”

Lee leans forward in her desk chair and stretches out one of her hands, an offer if Bruce is willing to accept. He keeps his hands to himself for now and she brings it back to a more comfortable place in her lap. “How about you tell me the whole story.”

“Victor’s been under Strange’s control for some time,” he starts, paraphrasing what she must already know from Jim, or the things Bruce has told her himself. “We brought Nora here, and you began to treat her illness with Ed’s help. Then, when I was supposed to pick up Robin for a training session Jim told me Victor was in Uptown causing a scene. We’ve been looking for him since we found Nora in the warehouse, and ignoring this opportunity could have been devastating.”

“How devastating?” she asks.

Bruce pauses enough to form a proper response. “I don’t know if he could have broken free of Strange’s control another time. It took considerable effort each time, and even without Strange there the control slips back into place before long.”

“So you think this was your last chance to save him.”

He  _ knows  _ it, but he doesn’t say this out loud. Instead he just nods. “But I miscalculated.” He can still see Victor’s eyes, pupils uneven and the strain in his neck and face. And then there was the calm, the softening of his eyes, and he just  _ let go _ , and let Bruce control him. He handed over his autonomy, because what other choice did they really have? “I was speaking quickly, and trying to give him something to latch onto so he could focus, but I used Strange’s phrase, it’s the only explanation.” He rubs his hands over his face, and he leaves them there when he keeps talking. “I took away his control.”

“You saved his life,” Lee says, and Bruce lifts his face, peering at her from behind his fingers. “Was it ideal? Certainly not, but if you hadn’t used the phrase where would he be?”

“I don’t know.” Even though neither of them say it out loud he knows that isn’t true. Victor would be under Strange’s control, possibly forever. Not coming to his aid could have killed off what little remaining hope he had.

“If you’re worried about what he’s thinking you should talk to him. I’m sure he’s lonely inside that room, even if he keeps telling everyone to leave him alone.”

“I don’t know what to say,” he tells her. Apologizing feels cheap.  _ Sorry I took control of your mental faculties but I did save your life _ . He feels a bit sick to his stomach just thinking that. “What would you do?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of advice to give you. All I can tell you is be honest, be sincere, and don’t take it too personally if he doesn’t want to talk to you. From what I’ve gathered he’s been that way towards everyone.”


	22. Chapter 22

Ed leaves his phone turned off following Barbara's call and throws himself headfirst into his work, staying up late and ignoring Oswald's protests, claiming he's had an accident in the lab and needs to replenish the supply of medication for Nora. He feels the tingling, bone-tired ache near his temples but he pushes past the first and second waves of exhaustion. He can't afford to let his mind settle for long unless he wants to fall into a depressive period.

He needs to automate the process. If something were to happen, well, he can't expect Victor to take over if he continues to refuse Ed's requests, and Bruce would be busy trying to find Ed to focus on the medication.

There's a small part of him that thinks that isn't true, that certainly Nora is higher on the priority list than Ed. It's a biting, laughing part of himself that has every characteristic of his old hallucination aside from actually bothering to show up. But even though his doubt never manifests physically it still festers around in his conscious thought enough to send him into a funk. Hindsight reveals to him that it was, unfortunately, an inevitability regardless of how hard he pushed himself to think about other things.

“July,” he pauses and tries to remember the day, and comes up with nothing, “whatever.” He tosses his recorder to the end of the couch and curls his legs a bit closer under his blanket. It's not like he had any _ideas_ he wanted to save anyway. It just felt comforting to follow his routine until he had nothing of value to say.

“So you’re doing the whole sad beard thing again, huh?” Ed turns his head to the side, watching Selina slink into the room with a glass of ice water in one hand and a bowl of something in the other. She sits across from Ed and raises one eyebrow in question.

Ed touches his face, feeling the few days of stubble before curling his arm against his chest. “I’ve been preoccupied lately.”

“Uh huh,” she eyes him critically as she sets the bowl on her knee and pops a grape into her mouth.

He can’t get his mind to focus on any topics long enough to ask Selina about them, so instead he notes how pronounced her stomach is getting, the way she has a slight fullness to her cheeks that wasn’t there before. But he doesn’t want her to yell at him, so instead he asks her “are you staying here again?”

She shrugs. “Just stopping by so I can get something to eat.”

So, no. He files that information away for another time, and changes the subject. “How far along are you?”

She shrugs again, sending him a weird look and chewing on some grapes rather than responding. When she does she hums, throwing out a guess, “I don’t know, four months? I stopped throwing up at least.”

“That’s good. And four months sounds about right, if I’m remembering dates correctly. Did you know it’s common to associate growth periods of a fetus with fruit sizes? RIght now it’s about as large as an avocado.” She’s still staring at him with the same intense, mildly concerned look, and he coughs into a corner of his blanket. “What?”

“Are you trying to small talk with me?”

Ed sighs and looks away for a moment, and when he turns back he shakes his head. “In a sense, yes, but I was also attempting to suss out whether or not you’d be willing to do something for me.”

“That sounds more like you,” she says. She leans back a little on the couch and puts her feet up on the coffee table between them. “What are you up to?”

“Do you know anything about Ivy’s progress with her plant network? I considered visiting her but there are certain,” he licks his lips, pausing to find the right phrase, “I’ve recently gotten new information suggesting I shouldn’t venture that far from the Manor.”

Selina shrugs. “Dunno. Bruce is the one that saw her last.” She tips her head to one side. “You do know you could just give her a _phone_ or something so you can talk to her whenever you want.”

“Possibly.” Ed nods. “Yes, that would be helpful, actually.” It isn’t the network he wants but he can’t afford to be picky when he has no alternative.

“Hundred bucks, and I’m not buying the phone.”

“That sounds fair.” More than fair, really. Far less people want her to drop dead. She sets her bowl on the coffee table and stands up from the couch, and she starts to leave the room. Ed calls out to her before she gets far, “if you’re not too busy I have one other thing.”

She turns back around and puts a hand on her hip. “Whatever it is I’ll do it as long as you pay.”

He nods. “Right, of course. It should be simple enough.” In _theory_ , at least, not that anything has ever been simple with _her_ being involved. He huffs out a breath. “I need to meet with Fish.”

-

He makes himself presentable; Ed takes the time to wash thoroughly in the shower and shave away his stubble, and once he’s dried off and dressed in some lightweight summer clothing he’s feeling a bit more human.

Being outside isn’t necessarily wise, but Wayne Manor is far enough removed from the bulk of Gotham to feel like a different city. Ed watches the shadows beneath a few trees as he makes his way out to the private dock behind the Manor, and he adjusts the cuffs of his shirt nervously as a single boat pulls up to the dock and out steps Fish, looking every bit like she’s not pleased to be called out here unexpectedly. Her guards stay in the boat; this observation doesn’t make Ed feel any safer.

“I hope you have a very good reason for wasting my time,” she warns him. “And you’re alone. Where is my little umbrella boy hiding?”

“He’s preoccupied with a very important project,” Ed explains. “He sends his regards.”

She watches him critically, and tuts. “You have to do better than that if you’re going to try to lie to me. He doesn’t know you’ve called a meeting, does he?”

Ed bites his lip and glances back up at the Manor, watching the windows for any signs of prying eyes. He can’t see anyone from this distance, and hopes that’s also true if someone were to look down from the Manor. “He does not.”

“Then why am I here? Why have I wasted valuable time and effort to come out to see _you_?” She gestures to the surrounding area, which is admittedly sparse, and to Ed, who she’s never been terribly thrilled to see. “Explain yourself.”

“Barbara’s making a considerable effort to increase her territory,” he says quickly, shrinking beneath her scrutiny.

“When isn’t she?” Fish asks, rather dismissive of the very _real_ threat he and Oswald are facing. “Let the woman win something small and ineffectual and it should get her off your backs. Sometimes the best way to win is to lose, and then you come back swinging.”

“We’re retired,” Ed says. He feels like he says this every time they speak.

“So you’ve said,” she chuckles, amused at his insistence. “And yet here we are.”

He keeps any and all outbursts buried down deep; he’s giving himself heartburn from the effort but he’ll take some discomfort over anything Fish could do to him if he makes her angry, especially when Oswald isn’t here to provide a buffer. “I have a question.”

“And you think you have a right to get an answer.”

He nods. “Oswald’s project,” he pauses, and she nods, “you had something to do with it. The broker, Barbara’s territory, it’s all a little too convenient.”

“I can see he keeps you around for that brain of yours,” she says idly, humming a bit as she circles Ed, sizing him up with each careful step. “I may have helped a few things fall into place.”

“You’re the reason we’re under fire from Barbara,” he spits. He’s angry, and now he has a _right_ to be.

“I didn’t make Barbara’s broker any more crooked than he already was and I _certainly_ didn’t make Oswald sign the deed.” She waves a finger in Ed’s face, and he swallows down his next outburst. The back of his throat burns. “Was he a pawn?” She shrugs. “Aren’t we all at some point in our lives?”

 _And what does that make me_ ? he thinks. She didn’t even bother to use him in her little plan to, what, take Barbara down a notch? It worked, he supposes. She’s lost valuable land, and it’s going to be swarming with _children_ . And Ed knows it’s irrational to feel resentment over not being _used_ , but she clearly can’t see the value he brings to the table.

Or maybe he would have realized something was wrong a lot sooner if she had.

“You don’t plan to clean up any of the mess you made,” he says. He knows better than to accuse her of leaving a trail of disaster behind her, but his tone must have implied just that given the death stare she gives him.

“Care to say that again?”

Ed words his response very carefully. “Our current home isn’t safe, and none of the old ones can be trusted. Barbara’s cut us off from my network. And she isn’t stopping there. She’s using it for herself.” He takes a breath, and lets it out slowly. “And she’s working for Strange.”

Fish raises one eyebrow. “Curious. Certainly more entertaining than I thought you’d be.” She turns around and starts walking back to her boat. “Thanks for the riveting tale of woe, but I must be going.”

“Wait, Miss Mooney,” Ed steps forward, trying to appear grateful, or at least humble. “I asked you here for a favor.”

“Yes, and then you wasted my time with your stories, telling me things I already know.” She steps down into the boat and Ed bites his lip, considering the consequences of just jumping in after her and begging. “Talk. And be fast.”

He nods quickly, and talks just as fast. “Give Barbara something to focus on. Hit her weapons dealer, or one of her clubs. Something small, but distracting.”

“I’ll see if I can pencil your request in,” she says, sitting in her chair and still somehow looking down on him when he’s standing above her on the dock. “After all, _I’m_ not retired, and it’s so hard to find good men these days. But if one of my men happens to be in the area I’ll encourage a little mayhem on your behalf.”

“Thank you,” he sighs. It’s as good a guarantee as he’s going to get, and they’ll owe her _again_ , as if they haven’t dug themselves a deep enough hole already.

She doesn’t say anything else before signalling to her driver to leave. Ed watches her boat drive away for a few more moments, but being outside, unprotected, and very much in the open becomes a bit panic inducing. He moves quickly, but not quick enough to draw attention to himself, not stopping even for a moment until he’s under the back porch of Wayne Manor.

Ed slumps against the wall near the patio door and pulls out his recorder. “July sixteenth,” he whispers, “Fish has agreed to consider aiding Oswald and I in our attempt to keep Barbara at bay. I have no concrete plans from her, or an actual guarantee, but past experience leads me to believe that she will help at her own convenience.”

He turns to the door and peers into the sunroom, swearing when he sees an all too familiar hairstyle over the back of a chair. Oswald appears to be reading the paper, and a table nearby has a steaming cup of tea and a teapot on a metal tray.

Ed takes a deep breath and opens the door, keeping his expression even as he enters the Manor and moves to sit in the chair beside Oswald’s. He doesn’t glance up from his paper, leaving Ed to stew in the uncomfortable silence and fiddle with the buttons on his recorder. When Oswald does address him his expression is flat, and it takes Ed a few moments more to realize that he’s waiting for Ed to speak.

“Earl grey?” he asks, indicating the teapot. Oswald turns to it and frowns down at the tea set; Ed’s caught him off guard, but only for a moment.

“I think we both know I wasn’t sitting here waiting for you so we can discuss my morning tea choices, Ed, so don’t try to distract me.” He folds the paper in half and tosses it onto the floor by his feet. “Who did you meet with? Is your network back in your hands?”

He looks outside at the river, watching the gentle ripples on the surface. Fish’s boat is long gone, and from this angle Ed can’t actually see the docks below, just the steps leading down to the water’s edge. “No, although Selina is getting a phone to Ivy so we can stay in contact.” Oswald doesn’t look terribly enthused by this news, but it does soften his frown into a more neutral expression. “You might have to entertain a few calls from her.”

“I’ve endured far worse,” he sighs. “You didn’t go outside just to speak with Selina.”

Ed looks to the side, then back. “Despite my namesake I possess no scales or gills-”

“Fish!?” Oswald clenches his hands over the armrests and closes his eyes, breathing harsh and fast. He flinches his hand away when Ed tries to grab it, and Ed curls his hand to his chest, telling himself it’ll pass, he’s just upset. He doesn’t like being left out of the loop.

“Oswald I-” Ed clamps his mouth shut when Oswald holds up a hand.

“Please, let me speak,” he says. Oswald turns in his chair to face Ed fully. “What are you keeping from me? And _don’t_ tell me it’s nothing.”

Ed pulls his phone from his pocket and turns it on. He sets it on the small table beside Oswald’s tea and waits for it to finish turning on. He hasn’t looked at it since Barbara called him, and he has several missed calls from an “unknown” number. If he waited long enough he’s sure she would call again, but it’s impractical, although a part of him is hoping for a well timed call. He gestures to it and explains, “Barbara called me a few days ago.”

“Show me,” he demands, and Oswald looks down and watches Ed scroll through his missed calls, fifteen, if he’s counted correctly, and after Ed's finished Oswald holds out his hand. Ed places the phone in the center of his palm and Oswald slips it into the inner pocket of his suit coat. “I can’t imagine why you didn’t tell me immediately, _or_ why you insisted on speaking to Fish alone.” That’s what he says, although he doesn’t ask Ed to explain himself. “I suppose we shouldn’t assume she’ll tire of this revenge plan of hers.”

“She’s working with Strange,” Ed whispers. Oswald’s mouth opens with surprise, and he swallows audibly. Ed reaches for Oswald’s hand, and this time Oswald takes it, letting Ed squeeze his fingers. “She won’t stop until she feels she's won.”

“So you’ve bought us a little time,” Oswald says. “A day, two at most?”

“She doesn’t know we’re here,” he says, “or she would have already come after us. Strange is using her, I think. I’m not sure to what end, but she doesn't know what he knows.”

Oswald drums his fingers on the back of Ed’s hand, thinking, and Ed focuses on the tapping of his fingers. Every time he thinks he’s gotten the rhythm down Oswald changes it up, speeding up or slowing down his cadence on a whim. It keeps him grounded, and his panic remains at a manageable level.

Oswald snaps Ed out of his focus when he stops tapping, and he tilts Ed's face up with his free hand. “I think it's time we take a more active approach to our little Barbara problem,” he says, and Ed nods. “Make sure you're ready to go when I come back. I need to make a few calls.”

-

Ed waits just inside the foyer with Oswald, peering out the frosted glass at the main drive. It's a nice day, few clouds and hardly a breeze. He'd much prefer the cover of darkness or heavy rain, but Oswald insisted they leave sooner rather than later.

Where they're going is still a mystery to Ed, but Oswald hasn't packed any bags. They're either travelling very light or they're not leaving town just yet.

“He’s here,” Oswald says quietly, one hand on Ed's lower back and the other on the door handle. He guides Ed out to the car that's pulled up into the drive, Gabe sitting up front like normal.

Ed stops a few pages from the car and shoves his hand into his pocket, handling the taser he borrowed from Bruce's equipment. He's learned to expect _anything_ , and it feels good having the weight of the taser tugging at the seams of his coat pocket.

Oswald, ever astute, doesn’t hesitate to put up the partition between them and Gabe, and Ed lets his shoulders relax. “Can’t be too careful now, can we.”

“Where are we going?” He watches out the window and feels uncomfortable exposing his face to clearly, although in reality he knows Oswald wouldn’t dream of setting foot in a car without tinted windows. Ed turns back to Oswald and moves just a fraction closer to the middle of the seat. “Certainly not outside Gotham.”

“If Miss Barbara Keane thinks a few phone calls can scare me out of Gotham she is going to be sorely mistaken when I take her down with my bare hands.” He brushes his shoulders, ridding them of dust that isn’t there, preening a bit. The way he talks makes it sound like Barbara already has one foot in the grave. “No, we’re going to Tawny’s.”

Ed nods. “Apartment, or the café?” Oswald gives him a look. “Obvious answer.”

“The café is public, and let’s be honest, Barbara doesn’t have a prayer if Tawny gets even a _whiff_ of nonsense coming into _her_ café.” He glances out the driver’s side window, sighing a bit wistfully. “It would admittedly be _easier_ if we could just knock Barbara’s operation over once and for all.”

“We’re retired,” he reminds Oswald. He doesn’t respond.

The café isn’t terribly crowded at such an odd hour, but there are always regulars, people that swear by and would die for a cup of Tawny’s coffee. She glances at them from behind the counter, and she waves a young attendant over to manage the front. A single tilt of her head directs Ed and Oswald to her back room, and by the time they’ve settled onto the loveseat in the back office she joins them, two steaming mugs of coffee in her hands and a somewhat irritated expression on her face.

Ed mouths a thank you to her and takes a sip from his mug, two sugars with a splash of frothed milk and a hint of nutmeg, and he sighs. It really is the best cup of coffee he’s ever had in his life; he’s not surprised to find he’s missed it. He hasn’t gotten over to the café since their willing house arrest began.

“You’re paying for repairs if you drag trouble here,” she says first. No greeting, no pleasantries, no surprise really. “Post mortem or not.”

“Charming as always,” Oswald smirks. “There won’t be any trouble here, I assure you.” Oswald uses all of his charm, smiling at her over his mug of coffee. “You’re still in contact with your _associates_ I presume.” She says nothing, and Oswald presses forward. “How foolish of me, to even suggest otherwise. We wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.” He takes a drink and hums, somewhat exaggerated but Ed can see the genuine pleasure underneath Oswald’s theatrics. “Still the best cup in Gotham.”

“You’re flattering me,” she deadpans, “which means I’m not going to like what I hear.”

“The role I’m proposing to you is information based only,” Oswald begins, clasping his hands together and leaning in a bit, beseeching, or at least pretending to be. “The streets of Gotham need to brace themselves for the resurgence of an army, with the Riddler and Penguin on a joint seat of power. A partnership, with dire consequences for anyone that may stand in our way.”

Ed nods along, but he turns to Oswald and grabs his arm. “What do you mean an _army_?”

“Looks like you boys need to hash this out together. I’ll be up front.” She stands, but Oswald gets up as well and blocks her path.

“Miss,” Oswald hesitates, courtesy getting tripped up by Tawny’s lack of formality or willingness to offer anyone her last name. He recovers quickly and gestures to her chair. “Tawny, please sit down. What I am suggesting is a _rumor_ . A tall tale to tell the boys.” He pats Ed’s shoulder once to comfort him, and Ed nods, understanding Oswald’s intent. “I need the streets of Gotham to _think_ we’ve returned, stronger than ever. And _you_ are the key to this plan.”

“Why Mr. Cobblepot, a law abiding citizen would never,” she winks at them, and pulls a key out of her shirt. “I’ll need my ledger.”

“Thank you,” Oswald says as he sits, sending a winning smile Ed’s way. He does his best to return it, and when Oswald’s expression doesn’t fall he assumes he’s succeeded.

“Armies need men,” Tawny says, writing down a few notes in her ledger, “and weaponry.”

“A simple task,” Oswald says. “Who hasn’t seen a recruitment poster or two in the Narrows? Send a few men out claiming to have been accepted. A dozen, or maybe two.” He nods as she writes. “And as for weapons, well, we already know one of the few _legitimate_ dealers here in town, and a simple dropped receipt should suffice. Forging one should take minutes?” He shrugs. “The gossip network in Gotham should take care of the rest.”

She shuts her ledger mid sentence, and Oswald gapes at her and the mild anger on her face. Ed leans forward and offers an incentive. “We are paying for your services, of course.”

She considers his comment for a moment before leaning back in her chair and shaking her head. “Won't work.”

“Excuse me, I must have misheard you,” Oswald laughs incredulously. “Because you are suggesting that _my_ plan won't work, which is preposterosterous. And furthermore, your part is only step _one_.”

“Step one?” Ed whispers. Oswald dismisses his question with a wave of his hand.

“So you'll have to forgive me if I find your claims laughable when you don't know what else I have planned.”

Ed studies Oswald’s profile, searching for a tell, a tick, _something_. _We're retired,_ he tells himself, _he agreed_ _to the plan_. Clearly he's bluffing, only it isn't all that clear. Oswald is the picture of confidence and sincerity.

“It won't work,” she says again, firmly, and she shrugs. “Gang doesn’t just _drop_ a customer receipt.”

Oswald’s mouth falls open. “ _That’s_ what you’re hung up on? Really?”

“It’s a rather significant detail, I’m assuming,” Ed counters, and Oswald actually looks hurt that Ed agrees with Tawny. “In a bluff appearance is everything.”

“ _One_ person sees it was her and your little “army” ruse falls apart.” Tawny flips her ledger back open and hums to herself. “Not an oversight I expect from you.”

Oswald fumes, but he keeps his temper in check. “Fine, I see your point,” he says, smiling yet still very tense. “Now I'm supposed to remember every detail of a person who was never directly employed by me? Fine. And you're not going to offer up an alternative if course,” he huffs. Tawny’s expression didn't change. “Apparently I have to think of _everything_ ,” he quips, then he smiles to himself, a bit smug. “Well then, isn’t it a good thing that we just so _happen_ to have a somewhat aged person in our employ. It isn’t outside the realm of possibility for him to have a slip up now is it?”

-

Ed’s coffee is sitting on his stomach like a rock while he conjures up Oswald’s profile in his mind, searching and hoping for a tiny twinge at his eye, or maybe a slight upturn of his upper lip. _Something_. Anything to reassure him that they won’t stray.

If he’s learned anything over the years it’s the definite _lack_ of anything reassuring lurking about in his head, and recalling the neutral expression on Oswald’s face furthers his theory. His chest feels tight, and rubbing his sternum does nothing to alleviate it.

He waits until they’re nearly back to the Manor to say anything, and he hears himself sounding cowed, fearful, and he hates himself for feeling this way at all, let alone towards Oswald. He whispers, “is there more to your plan?”

“Not now, Ed.”

“I think if you have a right to know about Fish then I have a right-” Oswald stops him with a pat on his cheek.

“Not _now_ , I don’t. Understand? I’m _working_ on it, but I need to see how this plays out. We’re not so far gone that we can’t wait a few days to make sure the city takes the bait.” Oswald touches Ed’s cheek, runs his thumb over his cheekbone, and Ed rests his head against Oswald’s palm.

-

“July 23rd, I am,” he pauses when someone touches his arm, and he turns to find Oswald standing to his right, an amused smile on his face. “Oswald?”

“I hate to interrupt whatever it is you’re _doing_ down here,” he says, “but I'm afraid I don't have much choice.”

Ed is quick to explain, “I’m automating a portion of the production process.”

Oswald holds up a hand, and Ed stops himself from continuing, but it doesn't stop him from wishing Nora would come to the lab again. “I’ve just received a phone call. It seems _James_ would like to exchange a few words with us in person.”

“About what, exactly?” Though he has a suspicion or two. He's not fond of either option.

“Well, let’s just say some things do tend to work out in our favor.” Oswald rolls his wrist towards his face and checks the time. “He should be arriving within the hour. I suggest you find a good stopping point, because he can get a bit long-winded when he’s in a mood to chastise someone for threatening his precious city.” Ed nods, and Oswald squeezes his shoulder. “Don't let the blowhard rile you up. I'm sure he's just following orders.”

“He's the Commissioner.”

“And the mayor has his phone number. Believe me, it's an order.” He kisses Ed, flashes one of his dazzling campaign smiles, then let's his expression shift to something a bit more genuine and fond. “This is merely step two.”

Ed watches Oswald as he makes his way towards the stairs before turning back to his work station. “July, 23rd, I've begun automating the aliquoting process in order to speed up production time.”

-

Ed bounces his leg while they wait for Jim to arrive. He couldn't focus on his project for long, too anxious about the upcoming scolding they're bound to get. Despite knowing Jim's concerns are built upon rumors he hates the idea of being reprimanded, and he feels his anxiety and irritation festering together somewhere in his chest. He can't decide if vomiting would actually make him feel better, and by the time he's down deliberating the pros and cons there's a firm series of knocks on the door to Oswald's office.

“Come in,” Oswald says, sounding bored. He's flipping through the paper, squinting because he's not wearing his reading glasses, but Ed assumes it was meant to suggest he's tired of this conversation before it's even started.

Jim enters calmly, but his posture is rigid, and Ed can see the vein in his neck pulsing with barely contained anger. He clears his throat, and Ed catches a glimpse of the smirk on Oswald’s face before he relaxes his mouth and puts the paper down on his desk.

“You wanted to see us, James?” he asks innocently. Ed watches the vein pulse once, another, and he tries to subtly move his hand so his pinky is curled over the edge of Oswald's pants pocket. Jim doesn't seem to notice, and Ed's thankful for the desk between them acting as a visual barrier.

“Ed, Oswald,” he greets them with fake cheer. Ed's fairly certain he's holding in a scream. “Haven't seen you in awhile. Been busy?”

“You could say that,” Oswald answers vaguely. He starts fiddling with papers on his desk. “But that's business. I'm sure you understand, although I can try to pencil you in for coffee, or maybe dinner?”

“Cut the crap, Oswald.” Ah, so here's angry Commissioner Jim. Ed's _very_ thankful for the desk. “Twice this week I've heard that the word on the street is that _the Penguin and Riddler_ are forming an army. Ring any bells?”

Oswald hums and taps his chin, “no, can't say that it does. And frankly, James, I am saddened by how little you trust the two of us to operate within the law. I had thought you were above listening to petty rumors.”

“These _rumors_ are all over the city. The mayor's called my office five times _today_ , because the criminals I told him were reformed, the criminals I _exonerated_ because I saw real, genuine reform when we worked together, are apparently returning to their old ways. Now, why don't you try again, and be honest with me, because my _career_ is on the line.”

“You know how Gotham is.” Oswald shrugs. “People like to talk.”

“That doesn't _help_ me. Is there an army or not?” Jim turns from Oswald and glances at Ed, and after a quick peek out of the corner of his eye Ed locks eyes with Jim, and he shakes his head once. Something small shifts in Jim's expression, but he puts on an angry face when he turns back to Oswald. “GCPD is going to have to increase patrols because of the rumors. If either of you are even _thinking_ of starting a turf war we'll find out.”

Ed mouths a silent “thank you" to Jim. He doesn't think Jim's figured anything specific out, but the rumors obviously mean _something_ , and Oswald looks very pleased with himself when Jim leaves without another word, although the way he slams the door speaks volumes.

“What did I tell you?” Oswald asks, clasping a hand on Ed's shoulder and shaking it fondly. “And _that_ completes step two.”


	23. Chapter 23

Bruce straightens his tie once more before stepping out of the back seat of his car. He takes a moment to stretch out his shoulders before thanking Alfred with a quick nod. “I'll call once things begin to wind down. I shouldn’t be out too late.”

“You and I both know that could be well past midnight, sir. I've witnessed several GCPD sponsored events in my days.”

“You did say I needed to maintain my image,” he mutters quietly. “Have a nice night, Alfred.”

“Same to you, Master B. Don't get into too much trouble.”

“It's a room full of GCPD officers.”

“I believe that was my point, sir.”

Bruce chuckles. “I'll see you later, Alfred.”

Inside is still relatively tame, but rather crowded; officers and guests mill about the space while the catering crew offers up drinks and appetizers. Bruce is late,  _ fashionably _ though, just late enough for people already find themselves invested in conversations, which allows him to move through the space and get away with simple greetings and handshakes rather than having to entertain people with any stories. It’s for the best; Bruce can barely focus on the multitude of Gotham's finest that he should know by name but doesn't, and he focuses on approaching Jim once he sees him from across the ballroom.

“Evening,” Jim greets him, shaking his hand. Bruce can't resist increasing the pressure of the handshake a bit, and Jim is left wringing out his hand afterwards. “Wasn't sure you'd make it out tonight.”

“Alfred made me,” he jokes. “I have an image to maintain after all.”

“Well, you'll have no problem doing that here.” Jim jerks his thumb over his shoulder, and Bruce focuses on the small bar counter across the room where several people are waiting in line for mixed drinks. “It’s an open bar too, so maybe keep an eye out in case any guests start getting too rowdy.”

He was already praying for literally anything to go even a little bit south so he can leave as soon as possible, but he doesn't say that aloud. Helping Jim silently maintain the peace should keep his mind distracted sufficiently in order to endure the party long enough to satisfy the public. “I can manage that.” He does a cursory scan just to familiarize himself with the event hall. Single story, high ceilings, not many shadows or alcoves to hide in, although the lighting is somewhat dim. He'll avoid any actual alcohol to keep his mind sharp. Easy. “Are they making you give some sort of speech tonight?”

Jim rubs his eyes and groans. “When  _ aren't  _ they? This city needs a pep talk every other week.” He shakes his head. “Can't be helped, though, and I'll give a speech every damn day if it meant I didn't have paperwork anymore..”

“I should ask you about being Commissioner more often.” And to talk in general. He feels like he hadn't spoken with Jim except in passing for at least a month.

“We're both busy.” He shrugs. “Welcome to adulthood.”

“Whenever you tell me about your duties, it makes doing my job easier.” He smirks, and Jim shakes his head; he doesn't groan aloud but somehow Bruce still hears one, maybe it's just his expression. “You're an excellent motivator.”

“Glad to help,” he deadpans. “Don't let me monopolize you all night. Go mingle.”

Bruce is about to protest, he'd much rather spend time with Jim than an entire crowd of essentially strangers, but a voice cuts through the background conversation, a single, half heard call to a “professor”, and Bruce scans the room, eyes wide. There's the mayor, a few socialites Bruce should remember but can't; he turns around, eyes locking on a pair of rose colored glasses, and he gasps, backing away a step.

He blinks, and the glasses are gone. He keeps scanning, towering over the average height of Gotham's socialites, frantic as he tries to see a shaved head or rose lenses. Something. Anything to confirm what he's seen. His hand goes to his suit coat pocket and closes around the taser, angling it towards himself, and he watches, and he waits.

“Bruce?” Jim puts a hand on his shoulder and he jumps. “Hey, you all right?”

Bruce takes a few breaths and wills his hand to open and release the taser. He shakes out his hands, looking out at the crowd and breathing in, breathing out, hating the way the people all swell and pulse with energy. Voices grow louder yet somehow less distinct, turning into a garbled mess in his head. He excuses himself, shaking off Jim's hand and moving through the crowd and making his way to a small hallway attached to the main hall. He pushes open the first bathroom door he sees and hurries to the sink, leaning over the basin and turning on the cold water. Bruce splashes some water on his face, staring down into the porcelain as he gulps fresh air.

The cool water helps, as does the near silent room. He cups another handful of cold water and brings it to his face, leaving his hands resting there as he presses his fingers over his eyes. Then someone coughs politely beside him, and he startles, but only for a moment. Although the voice was distinctly  _ softer  _ than he'd expect of someone in the men's room.

“I'm in the wrong room,” he says calmly, and without moving his hands.

“Looks that way,” she says. Bruce takes his hands away from his face but doesn't look at whoever he's interrupted, instead he's glaring at himself in the mirror, scolding himself for overreacting. “But really, it's just a room. I'm not offended.”

_ Oh _ , he blinks. He glances over to the other end of the row of sinks and smiles self-deprecatingly at Silver. “Hello. I’m sorry to barge in like I did.”

“Like I said, it's just a room.” She dismissed his apology, tossing one side of her hair back over one shoulder.

“People will talk.”

“Bruce, it’s  _ Gotham _ . Of course they’ll talk.” She smiles at him. “I didn’t think a playboy like yourself would care.”

He laughs to himself. “I can't argue with you.” He leans one hip against the counter and shoves one hand into his dress pants pocket. “I didn't expect to see you here.”

“Someone had to plan this whole thing.”

Right, event planning. He remembers seeing her name somewhere on the invitation. “You're doing well for yourself.”

“I am,” she agrees. “Sometimes the clients can be exhausting, but it certainly beats getting into the family business. And it doesn’t hurt that I have a good reputation for well-run events.”

“I always thought events like this ran themselves fairly well, once they've started.”

“You’ve never been in charge of an event like this have you?” He shakes his head. “There’s the food, and of course the musicians want revolving breaks, and I can’t  _ tell  _ you how many times I’ve had to have plainclothes security throw someone out. The event itself is fine, it’s the  _ people  _ that will drive you crazy, but that’s why I’m in here I guess.”

“I can relate.” He places both of his hands on the counter and pushes himself up so he can sit on the edge. “It can get a bit overwhelming having the entire city know who you are.” He watches Silver pull a small container out of her purse and a lighter. “You smoke?”

“Yeah, but not cigarettes.” She pulls a neatly rolled joint out of her canister. His mouth opens with silent surprise. “You aren’t going to tell on me, are you?”

“It’s just not what I expected,” he admits. “I’m not going to say anything, although it isn’t legal, and that is a room full of police officers.”

“Most people don't barge into the bathroom,” she teases him. “I only use it if I’m stressed out at events.” She puts her canister away and holds the joint with two fingers. “You could join me if you want.”

“I shouldn’t,” he shakes his head. He needs to be focused if he’s going to help maintain the peace at this party.

“What kind of playboy are you?” she’s smiling, and laughing a little, just around her eyes.

“There’s a chance that might be somewhat fabricated.” It feels less like an admission and more like a confirmation of something she must already know; Silver’s known him for half his life. “I think I hate parties.”

She laughs, loudly, with one hand over her mouth, still clutching her lighter as she tries to suppress her response. He finds himself smiling even though she’s kind of laughing at him. “You know, I’m not actually that surprised.”

He considers going back to the party and letting Silver have a little privacy, but even after she’s placed the joint between her lips and lit the end he’s still standing in the bathroom. She inhales, and Bruce focuses on the bright red of the lit end.

It’s impractical, and potentially hazardous. He needs to keep a clear head, and there’s Strange. There’s always the chance that he’s gotten to literally  _ anyone _ Bruce could come into contact with. He can count the number of times he’s seen Silver in the past year on one hand, and she’s offering him marijuana, which could be laced with anything, and even if it isn’t it’s still a state-altering drug.

And yet he finds himself moving closer and holding out his hand. Silver doesn’t say anything while he inhales and holds his breath, then he lets it out slow. One more, just one more, and he’ll be calm enough to deal with the crowd for the night.

-

When he wakes the next morning it’s to the sound of his door opening. Bruce takes in a startled breath and opens his eyes, looking out at the bright sunlight. He turns over onto his back and stretches out his limbs, which still feel heavy from sleep. Alfred’s walking towards the bed with a tray in his hands, and he sets it aside on the bedside table. “Have a nice evening, sir?”

“Good morning,” he mumbles. His mouth feels fuzzy from dehydration.

“Yes, I suppose it’s still  _ technically  _ morning.” Alfred gives Bruce a look, but he doesn’t elaborate. Bruce takes the time to roll over to the other half of his bed and check his phone, which isn't on his charger and keeps blinking angrily about the battery being nearly dead. It’s past eleven.

“You didn’t wake me up?”

“Master B, I’ve been trying to get you to sleep in ever since you became a bloody teenager so I could have a quiet morning to myself. Far be it from me to complain, especially when your arrival home last night was sometime past one.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you.” He sits up and surveys his room, noting that aside from his suit from last night getting wrinkled from lying in a small pile by his dresser his bedroom is undisturbed.

“It wasn't for more than a moment when you bumbled your way up the stairs.” He hands Bruce the morning paper, and a glass of water. Bruce focuses on the water and swishes a mouthful around until the sticky, dehydrated feeling goes away. “I’d say your guise as the billionaire playboy of Gotham is perfectly intact after this little jaunt.”

“I certainly hope so. I'd rather not attend another party in the near future.” Or maybe never again. His head wasn't pounding when he first woke up but the start of a tension headache is beginning to creep in around his temples.

“I think that isn’t unreasonable, sir. There's always travel.” He moves across the room and begins picking up Bruce's suit from last night, tutting at the wrinkles. “And after you're finished with breakfast I’d take the time to call Commissioner Gordon, seeing as he’s the one that drove you home last night.”

Bruce makes a mental note to also thank and apologize to Jim when they talk. His night isn’t a complete blur, at least. There are some parts that are fuzzier than others, but nothing too out of character for his persona, excluding his little freak out and hiding in the bathroom with Silver.

Then again, maybe the second part wasn't that out of character.

“I’ll call, and possibly offer some sort of dinner as a thank you.” He drains his water glass and sets it on a nearby surface. “Overall I’d say it was a nice evening, even if it was crowded. I’m glad you made me go.”

“You certainly look like you enjoyed yourself, sir.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d look and see for yourself,” he gestures to the paper. “I’ll get you some breakfast. Tea’s in the kettle.”

Bruce waits until Alfred leaves the room before he flips open the paper to the second page and finds that, apparently, he needs to read up on just how newspapers operate, because there’s already a story about the gala in the paper. It’s mostly blurbs about the history and tradition, things that can be written months in advance without needing the actual event to occur, but the series of photos, including one Bruce doesn’t remember being taken of him and Silver on a balcony, both holding champagne glasses and smiling, was definitely from last night. It’s innocent enough, just two of Gotham’s socialites sharing some time together, but it feels oddly intrusive. Maybe it’s the framing of the photo, which makes he and Silver look somewhat removed from the party, and the way both of their faces aren’t fully facing the camera.

He watches the door until Alfred returns with another tray, this one with a small bowl of cereal and milk, some fruit, and a glass filled with orange juice. However Bruce doesn’t let him set it on his lap, and instead gets up to start pacing a bit, stretching out his limbs and mentally retracing the evening. Nothing unusual, at least that he remembers.

“Silver was there,” he says casually, gauging Alfred's reaction. He doesn't appear phased. “She's an event planner.”

“Right, I figured that out from the paper, Master B. Looks like the two of you had a nice time.”

He can’t tell if Alfred is passing any unspoken judgement over his interactions but he decides to clear the air now while the memories are fresh. “At the beginning of the night I thought I saw Strange in the crowd, and she offered me some marijuana when I was stressed in the aftermath.”

Alfred opens his mouth once, then closes it again. “That’s not quite what I imagined you would say about last night.”

“Nothing happened between us. We were just friendly with one another,” he explains.

“No one's trying to accuse you of anything Master B, I was just making some observations.” He picks up the paper from the bed and folds it so the picture of him and Silver is visible. “Haven’t really seen a smile like that out of you in quite some time.”

“That may have been the cannabis, or possibly the champagne.” He rubs his hands over his face. “I suppose you're going to feel the need to lecture me about smoking again. I weighed the potential risks and benefits before agreeing. I knew what I was doing.”

“Well I certainly hope you did.” He sets the tray at the foot of Bruce's bed and moves over to the kettle and cups. “You're still looking a bit dehydrated, sir. I'd recommend drinking some of the tea.”

Bruce blinks at Alfred, a bit perplexed, but he also isn't wrong. Even after the drinking the glass of water Bruce's mouth still feels dried out and cottony. When Alfred hands him a cup he takes a sip to test the temperature, then downs the entire cup in a few long drinks. It's herbal, but there's a hint of something he can't quite place. “It's good. Is this chamomile?”

“A blend, something Mr. Nygma claims to have whipped up. I think he's getting a bit bored and your kitchen might have gotten caught in the crossfire.”

“He's always welcome to use it.” Especially if this is the result. Bruce sets the cup on the breakfast tray and straightens his posture. “I feel like I need to explain my behavior. It was irresponsible, and reckless. I'd like to hear your opinion.”

Alfred sighs, and gestures to the bed. Bruce sits on the edge and picks up the glass of orange juice so he has something to hold. Alfred pulls a chair Bruce uses to put on his shoes over to the bed and sits down. “You didn't drive home, now did you?”

“You know I didn't.”

“Then I'm not sure what you're gunning for, Master B, but I find it much more worrisome that you expect me to treat you like a child when you handled yourself well enough. Bit unorthodox, but certainly not anything worth commenting on.”

“Selina and I are going to have a child in five months. That seems worth commenting on.”

“Master B, you have quite a lot to learn still about parenting, and I'm sure it will come as a shock to you, but being a parent doesn't mean you stop living your life, it means you have to allot time and energy for another, more malleable and susceptible human being within yours. That's why people hire nannies or sitters.”

“Or butlers.”

“Exactly. It's about planning for irresponsibility, not removing it from your life entirely. I'm certainly not going to watch you run yourself into the ground because you refuse to let yourself take a break.”

Bruce feels a warm, comforting feeling bloom in his chest. He smiles over the rim of his glass as he takes a sip. “Thank you. Having your support means a lot to me. More than you know.”

“I think I have an idea, sir, but I do appreciate the acknowledgement every now and again.”

Bruce nods and takes another drink of his juice. He feels lighter, and a bit more prepared for the baby's arrival knowing they'll have support from Alfred. Was he perfect? No, but he still knows far more than Bruce. He makes a mental note to ask Ed about any parenting books he might recommend for Bruce to read through between now and the birth, but for now he has time.

“I do have something else I want to discuss, if you aren't busy.”

“No more than usual.”

“Good.” He inhales once, forming the right words in his head before speaking. “It did help, smoking with Silver. I don't think I would have been able to stay long enough to keep up my persona if I hadn't calmed down.”

“And unless I'm mistaken you slept rather well.”

“Very.” He had a few dreams, but nothing bad. “I didn't have any nightmares.”

“Nothing interesting about your other dreams?”

He kissed Silver. It was fuzzy, blurry, and yet somehow very vivid. He remembers her hair, and her lips. Nothing more concrete than that other than vague notions and feelings.

Her hair smelled like lavender.

“Not really.”

“Sounds like this experiment of yours went rather well then, wouldn’t you say so?” Alfred stands up and brings the chair back over to the wall. “Commissioner Gordon might have a thing or two to say about it, but I’ll just leave that up to him. Have a nice breakfast, sir.”

He picks up his phone and looks through his emails and messages while he eats. There’s nothing incriminating to delete, and from what he’s gathered he barely used his phone except to take a few blurry photos late into the night, somewhere around glass three or four of the champagne if he’s not mistaken.

When he’s down to the last few bits of cereal and milk remaining in his bowl he starts calling Jim. Briefly he considers the possibility that he’s still asleep, but it’s almost the afternoon now, and he can’t imagine a world where Jim Gordon can overcome his internal schedule and sleep past sunrise.

Jim picks up shortly after that though, greeting Bruce with a quick, “afternoon.”

“Hello Jim, are you able to talk now?”

“Sure, just eating some lunch.” If Bruce listens carefully he can hear the scraping of a fork against porcelain. “What’s up?”

“Thank you for driving me home last night. I'm sorry I kept you out so late.”

“No problem. It wouldn’t have looked great if I let you fend for yourself.” He pauses to take a drink of something. “You did tell me something interesting about Zsasz on the drive. Very enlightening.”

Bruce tries to recall the few fleeting minutes when he was in Jim’s car last night and can’t recall any words, just the sharp sound of a car door closing and the looming figure of his home in front of him. “You’ll have to remind me, I’m afraid.”

“You were uh, let's go with chatty.” Bruce doesn't respond but he can feel a bit of embarrassment creeping in, and his cheeks warm. “Most of it was unremarkable, but you said you said there's some secret entrance at Arkham? Ring any bells?”

“Oh,” he groans quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yes, that's, I meant to tell you, and to inspect it, but I didn't have the time.”

“There haven't been any escapes so I'm guessing it isn't very common knowledge.” Jim says something inaudible to someone in the room with him, a few muted words and quiet laughter. “Bet Zsasz wanted to keep it all for himself.”

“That sounds likely. He was reluctant to tell me about it.”

“Tell you what, I have an idea that'll satisfy this curiosity about the secret entrance, and it'll let Zsasz stretch his legs. Lee says he's been getting antsy.”

“Has she started acting as his psychiatrist?”

“Something like that. Hm?” Bruce listens to the quiet mumbling on Jim's end of the line again, and decides it's a woman's voice. Jim says something back, and another, higher pitched voice chimes in a bit louder than the other two, but still indistinct. “Do you think you have time to go over to Arkham today?”

“I'll head over right away.” He needs to think through the pros and cons of using his armor today but that should only take a few minutes. “I'll meet you by the front gate.”

“Great, sounds good.” Jim pauses a moment. “Be honest with me, how likely is it that we're going to need a boat?”

Considering Ivy's unsuccessful attempts to detect Strange, and her failure to mention  this entrance, Bruce goes with, “very. I'll use my boat to get to Arkham. It should be sufficient.” He stands and unplugs his charger. “I'll let you finish your lunch.”

He takes a moment to change into some workout clothes he can wear comfortably under his armor before moving through the Manor at a brisk pace. Zsasz isn't going anywhere, but he's itching to finally solve this Strange mystery. If he is using the supposed secret entrance to go in and out of Arkham then finding it and shutting it down might keep Zsasz safe longer. It would certainly be ideal; Bruce isn't sure how much longer he can keep the Manor secure.

In the lab he pauses in front of Victor's freezer. Realistically, he should have already spoken with him, but it feels awkward to just pop in and say hello without acknowledging his use of the phrase, even if it was accidental. He glances through the thick pane of the window and tries to decide if Victor will be receptive today, and when they lock eyes he swears quietly. It would be incredibly insensitive to not at least speak for a few minutes now.

He pries the door open and closes it behind him, already chilled from the cold air but he refrains from letting himself rub his arms. Victor has moved from his usual place on the bed to the stiff looking couch, and even though it's such a small change it feels significant.

“I've been a bad host.”

Victor looks around the freezer, and gestures vaguely. “Seems hospitable to me.” He watches Bruce critically as he sits on a chair. “You'll get cold.”

“I'm leaving shortly, but I wanted to talk to you.” He feels a shiver run up his back before he can dedicate enough willpower to ignore the temperature of the room. There are goosebumps on his arm, and the way Victor’s breath huffs makes Bruce think he’s trying not to laugh. “I wanted to apologize. I know I said this before, but I never intended to use Strange’s control phrase against you. I’m sorry if that caused you any undue stress.”

“He made it too simple,” Victor says. He doesn’t forgive Bruce, but maybe he doesn’t care about the apology, or finds it unnecessary. “I have Nora.”

Bruce nods. “He underestimated you.” Victor keeps staring at Bruce, and a sick sort of cold settles in along with his already dropping temperature. “I was trying to reassure you.”

“It was too easy for the phrase to get used in normal conversations, but he wanted to brag. At least that’s my hypothesis.” Victor shrugs. “There are always a few kinks to work out with every experiment.”

_ You aren’t an experiment _ , Bruce thinks. He’s not sure how to say it aloud, or if he should leave any sort of therapy to Lee, considering she has actual expertise. He settles on some reassurance. “No one is using it on you again. At least, no one that knows you’re here.”

“Strange would, if he got the chance,” Victor counters. Neither of them bring up the actual problem; Strange knows Bruce rescued Victor. There’s no way he hasn’t concluded this following his best asset’s disappearance.

“Then we won’t give him that chance.”

Victor moves to lie down on the couch, wrapping his arms up over his head. Bruce gets up to warm his limbs with a little walking, and to survey the room. Nothing appears damaged, although there are a few places when a sort of snow collects on the ceiling. Occasionally it falls, barely noticeable in the dim lighting but it catches Bruce’s eye more than once. Maybe it’s something deliberate Victor does in his free time, something small and insignificant but also a conscious choice.

Bruce pauses his survey long enough to rub his hands over his arms, and not a second later Victor’s mumbling, “I said you would get cold.”

“I didn’t deny the fact either.” He is, however, wishing he had a hat. He can ignore the chill on his limbs but his ears are beginning to sting. “Next time we talk I’ll be sure to dress appropriately.” Or, alternatively, Victor could come out of his room. Not now, precisely, but it’s within the realm of possibility. “I don’t want to pressure you, but you should know Ed is capable of managing his time to work on two major projects.” Victor moves one arm enough to look at Bruce. “In case you were concerned for Nora’s medication. He’s actually been automating the process over the past month.”

“It isn’t necessary.”

“You would be able to leave this room. I know I haven’t said this before, but you’re welcome anywhere in the Manor.”

Victor looks up at the ceiling, hands moving to rest on his stomach. “There isn’t any reason to leave. The only thing waiting for me outside this room is Jim Gordon and an arrest warrant. I’m choosing this as my cell.”

He doesn’t agree with Victor, but he’s not going to try and force change on him. “I need to get going.” Bruce moves to the door and forces it open. “The only one condemning yourself to a life of imprisonment is you, Victor, but if that’s what you want no one’s going to make you change your mind.”

“You’ll tell me if anything happens to Nora?” he asks, and Bruce turns around. Victor avoids eye contact, but he elaborates, saying, “she doesn’t have to see me. I just want to know.”

“She’s doing well,” he says, “but if that changes you’ll know. I promise.”

-

There’s a definite reluctance from the Arkham staff to release Victor Zsasz into the custody of Commissioner Gordon and the Batman, but they hand him over willingly enough, and it only takes a few hundred feet for the staff to tire of watching them lead Zsasz down to the docks and onto Bruce’s boat.

“This isn’t a social visit,” Jim tells Zsasz. “Bruce told me about the secret entrance, and as Commissioner I can’t ignore that kind of threat. You’re going to show us  _ exactly  _ where it is, and maybe I’ll figure out some sort of perk for you.”

“Daily coffee? Or, no, how about I get to drive this boat, huh?” He’s flexing his fingers and eyeballing the steering wheel. “You know, I don’t think I remember exactly where it is, so we might have to circle a few times.”

Jim rubs his forehead and gestures to the wheel. “Sure, why not? Drive all the way to Uptown and back for all I care, just  _ show me the entrance _ . We didn’t get approval to sign you out for the afternoon to  _ not  _ get results.”

“And the staff here appreciates your cooperation,” Bruce reiterates. “Allowing an unsecured, unmonitored entrance to remain at Arkham Asylum is a very big security risk.” Strange could be anywhere in the facility as long as the entrance remains intact. Ivy’s reached a fair portion of Downtown, but only on the coast. She told Bruce something about wind funneling through the buildings hinders her network the last time they talked.

Zsasz drops himself into the chair and cracks his knuckles. “You got any fun additions on this thing?”

“For your purposes no,” he says, doing his best to ignore the small panel to Zsasz’s left. The less he draws attention to any of the accessory abilities of his boat the better.

“You’re holding out on me B, but fine, we can do it your way. Wouldn’t want the GCPD to throw a fit right Jim?”

“I have no idea how I still have a job,” Jim mutters. He sits in one of the side seats and looks up at the sky, muttering to himself as Zsasz starts increasing the speed.

“You worry too much Jim,” Zsasz calls over his shoulder. Bruce scans the cliff sides of Arkham island as he begins speeding around the first curve of the island. “You know, it might be easier to spot if we go the other way.”

Bruce keeps his eyes on the island, only glancing over every once and awhile to smirk at Jim as he wallows in what looks to be a combination of self pity and possible seasickness. Zsasz is making the most of his time outside of Arkham’s walls, speeding along as they circle the island and getting a bit risky on a few of his turns. But the boat never overturns, or actually comes all that close, and on Zsasz’s next circle he slows down, maneuvering the boat to the North end of the island and cutting the engine.

“Kay, so you have to look  _ really  _ close, but see this ridge right on the left?” He gestures, one arm leaning on the boat and the other pointing out a ridge halfway up the cliff face. “There she is, and all natural too. You can’t make ‘em that beautiful.”

Bruce looks closely, following the jagged edge until he sees the break in the rock Zsasz is indicating. It’s small from this angle, but he motions for Zsasz to move in, and the closer they get the more he can see the gap in the side.

“It’s underwater.”

“Ding ding! You nailed it. You follow the ridge down,” he indicates the point where the rock gap is largest, “and you swim right in. Or use some fancy sub, I guess. Whatever floats your boat.”

“Or sinks it.” Jim shakes his head. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but thank you. We wouldn’t have found this if we didn’t know what to look for.”

Zsasz reclines in the seat and crosses his arms behind his head. “I take back what I said earlier, I’ll take a coffee. Milk, and caffeine powder. Don’t you hold out on me too Jim.”


	24. Chapter 24

“July twenty-eighth, personal log. I have decided, with Lee’s assistance, that it’s possible that Nora is isolating herself following Victor’s arrival at the Manor, and my reluctance to address the change has not been helpful.”

It’s actually been a bit enabling, if he’s honest with himself. Between the medication production and working with Oswald he’s been incredibly busy. When he’s at the Manor he’s in the lab, and unless Nora is coming down during odd hours of the night she hasn’t returned to the Batcave since Victor’s arrival. The lab feels lonely without her there, and it's a bit unnerving when he's all alone and sees Victor staring out his window into the main space of the Batcave, probably hoping to catch a glimpse of her.

She's staying in a room on the first floor just past the sunroom, and Ed expects to find her sitting on the cushioned bench in her room. However, on his way to the back hall he catches a glimpse of curly blonde hair near the window. It's Nora, sitting curled up on one end of a loveseat with a book resting on her knees. Although her air canister is nearby on the floor she isn't using the cannula.

“I,” he pauses when his sudden intrusion startles her, coughing into his fist while she settles, “I take it you're improving.”

He gestures to his own nose when she looks confused, and she smiles. “Lee gave me the okay to only use it at night, or if I'm feeling short of breath. I can't thank you enough.”

So, marked improvement. Ed sits on the half of the couch she isn't using and rests his head against the back. “I'd say your thanks is more than adequate. It isn't very common for me to see positive results up close.” Or at least not the positive results people like Jim Gordon or Bruce Wayne would approve of. “I feel like we haven't talked in weeks.”

“It's my fault.” She sets her book on the coffee table in front of the loveseat and folds her hands in her lap. “I thought about going down to the lab, but Victor’s always down there, and don't know what to say to him. It's been so long, and when I saw him all I could do is back away.” She wipes at her eyes. They're misty, but not overflowing. Ed fidgets with his hands, suppressing the urge to reach out for now; he doesn't want to be rejected for trying. “I didn't know what to expect, or if I'd really get to see him again.”

“That was admittedly up in the air for some time.” He feels comfortable saying this now that Victor is safe in the sub basement.

“I was hoping he would approach me. Between the two of us he was always more forward.” She looks to her side over the couch. “And I can’t really bring this in with me.”

“He actually can't leave that room unaided. I'm solid as a rock-” she's looking at him with a lost, hopeless look on her face, and he clamps his mouth shut until the urge to riddle passes. “Ice was going to be the answer.”

“But he's comfortable in there? I can't imagine staying somewhere that cold.”

“Think of it as an altered state,” he explains, sitting up properly and turning towards her. “Victor's core body temperature is best regulated in an atmosphere of approximately minus twenty degrees Celsius. To him a freezer feels like this room to me and you. Pleasant, and comfortable. He'd overheat very quickly if he were to leave his room without a suit or other means of cooling himself.”

She nods with understanding, then asks, “he doesn't have another suit?”

“It’s one of a kind. His was damaged when I, ah, had to apply an electrical shock to his person. Not his fault, just some unfortunate circumstances beyond his control. And unfortunately his compact system is missing, or possibly destroyed. And I can't make him another without his coolant formula.” She hugs her arms around her torso, and Ed allows the room to slip into a somewhat uncomfortable silence, but only for a minute. “I'm sorry I had to shock him.”

“But you  _ did  _ have to, right?” He nods. He's confident of that fact. “And it helped him?”

“In the long run.”

“I-oh,” she looks out the doorway to the hall, and Ed watches as Selina slinks by the sunroom. “I've seen her around here before.”

“She comes and goes. Her name is Selina, although if you remember her picture from the files she's also known as Catwoman.”

“Is she pregnant?”

Ed makes a face, pressing his lips together and looking at the innocent expression on Nora's face. “I was yelled at when I asked that question.”

Nora smiles. “You asked her, didn't you?”

Ed scoffs. “I don't see why that should make a difference.” Nora laughs, and he frowns, but she places a hand in his arm and his pout softens. “You're correct, in any case. She is pregnant.”

“We wanted a family.” Nora looks wistful, and her hand continues to touch Ed's upper arm. “I always wanted a little girl, but it wouldn't have mattered as long as we had our baby. But Victor was always so busy in the lab, and then I got sick. We never got a chance to even plan for a child. And now,” she sighs, trailing off into silence. Her hand slips away and returns to her lap. “This is only a treatment. I'm still dying.”

“Ten years is quite a long time in research.” Ed tries to encourage her. It doesn't seem to work.

“It doesn't matter. Even if I was cured, Victor can't have a child, right? Because he needs to stay in the cold. You said he can't leave, and even if he could, well, his body needs different things to survive.”

Ed hasn't ever considered the ramifications of Victor's altered homeostasis on  _ that  _ particular part of him, and he feels compelled yet embarrassed to find out for Nora's sake. It doesn't sound like a fun conversation to have with Victor. “There's always adoption,” he offers. A weak attempt to deflect and also make her feel better about her predicament, but it works better than his previous attempts to lift her spirits. “Lee adopted a child. She would be the person to ask.”

“I remember her telling me about Barbara.” Nora sighs, but it's more content than before. Maybe even a bit hopeful. “I don't want to do it alone, though.” She takes a deep breath. “Does Victor know the formula? Or is it,” she pauses, “someone else’s?”

“He won't give it to me.” He can either lie and make her feel better or make her feel badly but tell the truth, and Ed debates whether or not the truth would be selfish on his part. He wants that formula, maybe he's even  _ compelled  _ to get it, but it benefits Nora if he does. Victor could leave his room they could  _ be together _ . He concludes that this is a strong contender for the least selfish thing he's ever done in his life. “Because, well, I don't want to upset you.”

“I want to hear it.”

“Well,” he licks his lips, and he tells her as gently as possible, “it's because of you.”

“Oh.” She sighs. “It gives him an excuse. He doesn't want to see me,” she says quietly.

“No?” Ed wonders why she thinks that but he doesn't ask. “It's, well now in hindsight it's somewhat funny. He thinks you don't want to see him, and you’re the only reason he would ever want to leave that room.”

She doesn't laugh, and her attempt to keep her composure breaks down. She doesn't sob, thank God, but a few tears do trail down her cheeks, and Ed is left floundering while she sniffles. He is not equipped to handle this situation. “It's my fault,” she croaks, “he would already be able to leave the room if I didn't run away from him.”

“I suppose that's true,” he mumbles, and she starts crying harder. “Nora, um,” he reaches out a hand and pats her shoulder once, then pulls it back immediately. He searches the room for something useful, and he focuses on her air canister. “You could go to him now.” Nora wipes at her face and looks at Ed. “Yes, see, you’re right, an air canister really shouldn’t be frozen, but Lee told you it’s no longer required at all times. Now there’s nothing stopping you,” he says, excited and smiling.  _ This  _ will definitely cheer her up.

“I don't know.” She wipes the tears off of her face. “It feels like every choice I make keeps hurting him.”

“Not speaking to him may continue to do that.” He tries to backpedal when her eyes start watering again. “But, but, look, this has a relatively simple solution. Nothing has to be  _ solved _ right away. You can see him.” Ed nods. “You can see him, in person, and he’ll know you still care about him.”

And once he sees that he’ll give Ed the formula as soon as possible.

“What if you’re wrong? I’ve let him believe that I don’t want to see him for weeks.”

“I have a good feeling about this plan. Trust me.” She thinks for a moment, and then nods. Ed smiles again, and when he offers Nora his hand she takes it. “I'm not trying to scare you, but there’s a chance you’ll both be initially overwhelmed by your reunion. With that in mind, would you feel more comfortable if Lee was on the premises?”

-

“I know you already know this, but as your doctor I have to make sure to explain how dangerous it could be for you to stay in a freezer for longer than ten minutes.” Lee hands Nora a pair of gloves and a hat, and Nora begins pulling on her winter gear. Ed stands nearby, one hand around Nora’s air canister and the other already holding the heavy latch to Victor’s room. “And don’t even  _ think _ of taking any of this off.”

“I won’t,” she nods, face already pinking from the added layers. Ed thinks the snowpants might be a bit excessive, but it’s Lee’s call, and she demanded Nora be bundled up as if Victor was going to unleash a literal avalanche on top of her the moment she stepped through the doorway.

Although that might be an apt metaphor. They didn’t have time to warn him that Nora’s about to walk through his door. Ed can’t decide whether or not that’s going to cause problems with their reunion, but Nora is nearly ready to go inside, so he stays put.

“Remember, if you start feeling unwell you should get out of there as soon as possible. Ed will be out here with your air tank if you start feeling short of breath.” Lee smiles at her and hands over a scarf. “And don’t worry too much. He misses you, and I’m pretty sure this is going to be the best thing that’s ever happened to him.”

“I hope so.” She turns around and looks at Ed; Nora’s expression is a bit queasy, but the worry is minimal. “I think I’m ready.”

“Here is a timer,” he says as he hands her a small stopwatch. “It’s set for ten minutes, per Lee’s instruction,” he gestures to Lee, “and I have a second one synchronised with this one.”

“Ten minutes?” she asks, verifying.

“You can leave early if you want,” Lee assures her.

“I was just thinking it sounds so short.” She holds the timer in both gloved hands and looks to Ed. “I’m ready to see him.”

“Perfect.” Ed pulls out his timer and hits the start buttons on his and Nora’s. He turns to the door and throws his weight against the latch, grunting with the effort until he manages to break the door’s seal and crack it open. “Give me one moment.”

Nora nods, standing back as Ed pushes the door open the rest of the way. Victor is moping on his couch; Ed wrongly assumed this move was an improvement when really Victor was probably just tired of the wall near his bed. His only response to seeing Ed is a long-suffering sigh, but then he looks past Ed at the door, and to Nora, standing just outside the door and leaning in to get a better look. He scrambles up off the couch, and initially he takes a step back, but then he takes a deep breath and nods once. He’s a bit shaky on his feet.

“Ten minutes,” Ed tells him. He looks at Nora, who nods, and Victor, who doesn’t seem to remember Ed is even there, but that’s irrelevant. Ed sidesteps the doorway long enough to let Nora step inside, then he pulls the door shut behind him.

“Don’t snoop,” Lee tells him, and he gasps, faux offended, and she rolls her eyes at him. “I’m going upstairs. Call me back down here once she's out. I'd like to give her a quick vitals test after she leaves.”

“Of course.” Which means she  _ does  _ want him to stay close by, and it can't hurt to keep a close eye on things. He waits until Lee can’t see him anymore before peering in through the single window.

Ed realizes Lee may have seen Victor’s emotional onslaught coming a mile away, and Ed looks away for a moment, not comfortable witnessing the way Victor's eyes are obviously watery even in the low lighting. When he glances over again using his peripheral vision he sees Victor’s arms swooping forward, and after taking a moment to verify that yes, it’s just a hug, and yes, Nora is returning his affections, Ed walks over to a nearby chair so he can sit until the timer beeps.

-

The door doesn't spring open the second the timer goes off, so Ed prepares to crack it open, ready to put on a stern, authoritative face if there's any resistance on Victor or Nora's parts. Nora turns around as he struggles with the door, it tends to stick a bit after being open, and she nods to him before turning back to Victor.

“I'll come back,” she whispers to him. Victor nods stiffly, holding himself together while she's still in his room. Victor's hand lingers on her shoulder as long as possible until Nora works up the will to move away.

“Lee would like to give you a check up once you're out of your gear,” Ed tells her as she approaches. Nora doesn't respond, but he watches her sit on the chair he used and begin removing her winter clothes. He sends a quick message to Lee and returns his phone to his pocket. "She'll be right down. I just need a moment with Victor."

"Thank you," she calls out to him, and he nods back at her before bracing himself for the cold. Ed steps into the freezer, shivering as the usual gust of cold air hits his face. Victor's back on his couch, head hanging low and his hands resting on the back of his neck. He sighs, dejected and maybe a little lost, and he doesn't look up when Ed coughs politely to get his attention.

“Thank you,” he whispers, still not looking. His voice cracks despite the volume and he clears his throat.

Ed feels the need to ask about Victor's formula bubbling just under the surface of his self control, but Victor doesn't feel very receptive to his request, not yet at least. “If her vitals are normal she may be able to return for longer periods of time. She might be able to sit with you for fifteen, maybe even twenty minutes.”

Victor looks up at Ed, defiant and maybe a bit irritated. “I know what you're trying to do.”

“Well,” Ed sighs, “the choice is still yours.” Victor's reluctance does confuse him though. He was under the impression that literally the  _ only  _ thing keeping him from sharing his formula was having a good reason to leave his room, and now he  _ has  _ one. “Did this not go well?” Victor glares at him. “Is that a no?”

“The minute I can step foot outside this room, I'm going to Blackgate.” He shakes his head. “The only difference is now I know what I can't have.”

“Ah,” Ed muses, “well actually, considering the circumstances, you'd almost certainly be going to Arkham.”

Victor shivers, and although Ed feels like he's about to lose a few fingers he's certain Victor's reaction isn't from the room. “Ten minutes is still better than zero.”

Ed tuts, moving over and sitting on the -cold, so cold how is this comfortable - couch and rubbing his hands together, for warmth and because he has a few theories he's itching to share. “You weren't always under Strange's control while he kept Nora hostage.”

“I didn't want to attack those people,” he growls. “He _ knew _ it would hurt me if Nora's treatment was destroyed.”

“Yes, I don't mean those times, I mean those moments of control you gained back, the times when you were the one in charge of yourself.” He nods along, and Victor reluctantly does the same. “Right, so that means you've gotten a glimpse or two at his operations. You're like a, let's go with a double agent. That kind of information is infinitely valuable, and if I know Jim Gordon then I know that he's a man that understands when to overlook something for the bigger picture, and Strange is the prized mural of the gallery, while your little, superficial attacks are merely hotel art at best.”

“Hotel art,” he repeats. “Really?”

“Don't focus on the metaphor. Focus on the part where I am 99.9 percent sure,” he'd say 100 percent but he doesn't want this biting him in the ass later, “that Jim Gordon will let you stay here. Bruce is rather persuasive, and even if he can't sway Jim,  _ you  _ can. There's nothing wrong with implying that you'll withhold a little information if you're arrested.”

Victor raises one eyebrow, clearly disagreeing with some part of Ed's claim, but he doesn't reply. Instead he shakes his head and gets up to pace. “I need to make sure she's safe.”

“I have a feeling that living with the Batman can help with that.” Ed clenches his hands into fists, hiding his cold fingers against his palms. It wasn’t wise to come in here without a coat. “There are certain security measures in place that ensure our relative safety, or at least guarantee fair warning if anyone does come after us in the Manor.”

Victor is quiet for long enough to make Ed wonder if he’s trying to freeze Ed out, but instead it appears he was willing himself to speak candidly with Ed. “For awhile I was afraid he was tracking me.”

“Strange?” Victor nods. “How?”

“There are several places in my suit that could hide a small tracker. It's good that you ruined it.” He doesn't sound bitter but Ed's sure that was meant as a dig. “You’re shivering.”

“I'm aware,” Ed glowers at him, and he wills the shakes away. “And it's foolish to think Strange doesn't know you're here.”

“I know he knows I'm here,” Victor says.

“That seems like a compelling argument to give me your formula, if you do intend to protect Nora yourself.” Ed waits for the glare that doesn't come. “You know, when you keep refusing to give me your formula it almost looks like you don't  _ want  _ to spend-” Victor grabs a nearby chair and sends it flying against the wall, breath heaving as he stares Ed down. “Sorry.”

“Leave,” he says quietly. He moves over to the chair and begins surveying the damage, and Ed gets up, rubbing warmth back into his arms and silently commanding his knee to cooperate long enough to get him out of the freezer and to a chair. As Ed wrenches the door open he hears Victor clear his throat, and he turns back. “I'll give it to you. Happy?”

“I'd go with appreciative.” One side of Ed's mouth quirks up in a quick smile. “What part of my compelling argument convinced you?”

“Nora already asked me to. I just wanted to see how long you'd ignore the potential frostbite to try to pressure me.” He moves away from the door, ignoring Ed's offended expression, and over to his bed, where he lies down on his back. “Go get a notebook.”

-

“August third, I have begun setting up a second station for production of Victor's coolant.” He sets the recorder down on his notebook and lets it run as he works. “Some of his procedure is a bit outdated, and after a bit of back and forth we agreed on three alternative methods for the terminating step of the process. I will test all three, and barring any hiccups I should have the first batch of usable coolant in another week or two.”

He hates this procedure already. It's tedious, and relies on numerous verification tests throughout the entire process. But Victor only has to make it every other month, so if Ed just powers through a few batches now he can hand over the project to Victor to do for himself.

“Volumes and weights need to be within point zero one of the written amount due to the unstable nature of some of the intermediate stages.” He glares up at his separation funnel with distaste. “And several pieces of equipment must be sterilized following each use.”

He’d love it if the procedure was an actual _challenge,_ but it's just an annoyance. He's beginning to regret pressuring Victor to give it to him for so long. This was clearly not worth the effort he expended trying to get Victor to give up his secrets.

“On a more personal note, I am refusing to speak to Victor, because I'm sure he's laughing about this.”

And Victor's meeting with Nora again. The visits are still short, but Lee's approved a fifteen minute window instead of ten. There's something fundamental about Victor's demeanor that feels a bit softer around the edges following their visits, but it comes with a price; his emotional outbursts are more destructive and unpredictable. Lee assures him time and again that he's finally allowing himself to process what Strange did to him and Nora, but Ed keeps an eye out for widening pupils just in case. If Strange can sneak a tracker in a suit there's no reason he can't sneak some sort of microphone onto Victor's person. Subcutaneous, maybe, and close to the ear so the volume would be almost undetectable for anyone but him. Although Ed hasn't found any scars to suggest he's right about his theory.

“I am going to begin setting up a protocol to calibrate all scales and liquid measuring devices since Victor’s precious  _ formula  _ is such a prissy piece of,” he pauses and scrambles off his stool when he hears someone coming, and when it’s Oswald he sighs with relief.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“No, nothing.” Ed reaches over quickly and shuts off his recorder. “Do you need anything? Entertainment? Company? I’m not busy.”

Oswald looks over Ed’s shoulder at the equipment and reagents, and looks back to Ed, disbelieving and giving Ed an odd look. “If you insist,” Oswald starts, side-eyeing the workbench one more time, “it’s time to work on step three.”

“Perfect, yes, I have plenty of time. How long will it take? All day? Two days?”

“One trip to Uptown. What are you doing?” Oswald half shrieks. “I may not be science minded like you Ed, but I can tell when you’re lying to me.” He gestures to the bench and Ed’s notebooks. “This does not make me think you aren’t busy in the  _ slightest _ .”

“Fine,” Ed sighs. “I’m preparing a workstation for Victor’s formula, but the procedure is tedious.”

“I seem to remember you telling me science is always exciting,” Oswald teases him.

“It is,” he agrees. “However this is nothing more than glorified manufacturing. Nothing is being discovered except my newfound distaste for equipment sterilization.”

Oswald pats his arm condescendingly, but also fondly. “I can’t imagine the struggle you must be going through. If it’s such a drain on your mind allow me to distract you for the afternoon. I’m not exactly looking  _ forward  _ to this step.”

“I’ll prepare a few emergency supplies.”

“The car is leaving in fifteen, so do your best to hurry. You know how irritated our associates get when we aren’t punctual.” Oswald smiles in that way that makes Ed think he’s holding in a scream and squeezes Ed’s arm gently. “If you have time bring me a bottle of aspirin. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.”

-

Ed handles his dart set while they drive, fully aware that they won’t do anything from inside the car, but their mere presence is somewhat calming. It helps that Oswald’s preferred gun range is in Uptown, which isn’t far from the Manor.

“Don’t look so alarmed,” Oswald whispers to Ed. “We’re going to a  _ gun range  _ for christsakes. An  _ ally’s  _ gun range. It doesn’t get much safer.”

“That’s not a sound argument,” he counters, but Oswald doesn’t take Ed’s bait. Instead he taps his fingers against Ed’s knee in a few varying rhythms. “What is step three exactly?”

“You'll see soon enough. I'm sure you'll know to chime in when necessary.”

The route to the gun range is relatively busy; people are milling about in front of shops and cafes, enjoying the warm summer air without any idea that their mere presence here might spell disaster. No one fits any of the descriptions for Barbara’s preferred thug, still dressed in their Sunday best and not toting around large firearms. These are Gotham’s citizens, somehow completely used to the level of mayhem their city brings to the table and willing to leave their homes regardless of the dangers. Although if he’s being fair most of these people are only in danger by proxy. He and Oswald are the ones in actual danger.

Gabe parks in the back lot, and Ed is quick to abscond from the car and rush to the door, but Oswald takes his time, preferring to saunter up and pat Ed’s chest once he finally reaches the entrance. “Ed, darling, you’re the one drawing attention to us if you keep acting like a startled squirrel every time we go in public.”

“My network is expansive.” He scans the back lot. Garbage can. Alley entrance. Their car and a second, well maintained older car. Hopefully just the employees, but who can really tell? “And even in plain clothes we tend to draw attention to ourselves.”

“And my rumors are literally  _ everywhere  _ in the city. Barbara can’t check all of them at once.” He smiles and huffs out a single laugh. “Remember, step one was a complete success. And that means she’s going to have to overturn every rock to check that we aren’t with our new army.”

“How long will step one be viable?”

“Long enough to get step three into place.” He twists the knob for the back entrance and ushers Ed inside with a hand on the small of his back. “At least, that is my  _ plan _ , unless you want to keep wasting time out here in the open. Really it’s up to you.”

Ed lets Oswald lead him to the front counter. The shop is empty, possibly by design if she knew they were coming. It isn’t until Ed’s had a full minute to panic over someone coming out of the range with some sort of semi-automatic to blow them away that she appears, one eyebrow already raised in irritation and her hands occupied with a small pistol she’s cleaning.

“Gang, charming as always,” Oswald greets her, offering up a hand to shake. She stares at him for a few seconds and Oswald takes his hand back, already visibly irritated with the encounter and not trying to hide it. “Right. I’m sure you’re very busy, so I’ll get right to the point.” He glances to Ed, and Ed doesn’t know if he expects him to already have some sort of input. He stays silent; if Oswald  _ wanted  _ this to be a team effort he could have taken the time to explain the plan to Ed on the drive over. “You are the most reliable importer of unique equipment for the people of Gotham. The best supplier of semi-automatics for the semi-legal purposes of Gotham’s citizens. And I know you like to be impartial, which is why I’m going to start with a profound thank you. WIthout your help my plan would have never taken off, and I recognize that meant you took bias in my favor.”

She nods once, and Oswald continues. “Now, I’ve always been very fond of the work your former boss did for me, and in return he was always loyal to my operation.”  _ When he wasn’t working for Carmine _ , Ed thinks. Although any waffling on Zsasz’ part was due to wanting to get paid. He is a gun-for-hire, and Carmine was always willing to pay. “I'm hoping there's some trickle down because of all the years-” Gang is waving her hand in a hurry up manner “- what are you doing?”

“She wants you to get to the point,” Ed says.

“ _ I know what it means _ ,” Oswald snaps. “Would it kill you to just say that aloud? I've known you for decades and I can count the number of times you've actually deigned me worthy to speak to on one hand!” Oswald takes a deep breath and closes his eyes; Ed rubs a hand over his shoulder blades until he opens his eyes and straightens. “I am asking you to cease all deals with Barbara Keane and her men. No more sales, no more time in the range, nothing. Use whatever reasoning you like, I really don't care. Just stop supplying the woman that wants to riddle me with bullets,” he holds up a hand in Ed's face before he can open his mouth to speak, “with the firepower necessary to get the job done. Deal?”

“ _ Future  _ deals,” Gang says. She's chronically laconic, and cryptic when she does decide to talk.

“What's that supposed to mean? Yes, future deals are over. I'll pay you five percent more than what she was paying to make this happen.” Gang pulls a piece of paper and a pen over to her and scribbles something down before folding it in half and handing it to Oswald. He opens it and studies a neatly written number, somewhere shy of a hundred thousand. “This is reasonable enough, don't you think?”

Ed nods. “It's certainly preferable over the alternative.”

“We'll see how long her supply lasts when she can't get anyone to sell her ammo,” Oswald gloats.

“Four weeks,” Gang says, and Oswald deflates a little. They both turn to her and watch her begin to load her pistol.

“Four weeks from now or four weeks from her last shipment?” Ed asks, hoping the clarification will get rid of the disheartening feeling taking over his thoughts.

“Same thing,” she lifts the gun up and aims it at a point behind Ed and Oswald's heads, miming a gunshot at a fly buzzing above the doorway.

-

“August ninth, all scales and cylinders are calibrated and verified.” He sets his recorder on a shelf above his second lab station and changes his usual glasses for a pair of prescription safety glasses. “Due to the ever present danger posed by Barbara Keane, Oswald and I are considering alternative safe houses I order to preserve some of the safety Wayne Manor provides. Before leaving I will supply Victor and Nora with an ample supply of their needed coolant and medication, along with my detailed notes for Victor, who will likely take over once he can leave his room.”

He snaps on a pair of long gloves and sighs to himself, shaking his head. “Sometimes I wish you were still around so I had someone to be defiant against. I've found I tended to work well under the impression that you'd pop in to criticize my actions.” But the hallucination hasn't come back. Lee thinks it's a good thing, and Ed wants to believe her, but he can't sort through his thoughts as confidently when part of them aren't screaming in his face. He'll need to find a way to contact her from their new location. Even though she isn't in his head Lee seems to be able to spot the difference easily.

Loud, rapid footsteps break through the silence as Bruce comes barreling through the Batcave, and he stops for only a moment, spouting off, “emergency. I'll be at Arkham. Stay alert.” And he's off again, leaving Ed stunned silent, his mouth hanging open as he watches Bruce pull on his armor faster than Ed imagined was possible, and he only manages to close it when Bruce practically leaps into his car and peels out of the cave.

“What.” Ed blinks and turns back to the entryway when he hears slower, uneven footsteps approaching. Oswald grins at him from across the room, and he leans in close to Ed's ear once he reaches the lab bench. “It looks like step four is underway.”

Ed blinks, and he pulls off his gloves and glasses, switching back to his normal pair and nearly stumbling when he tries to fall in line with Oswald. “What do you mean step four is underway? Oswald, Oswald?” He watches, perplexed, as Oswald claims the couch near the medical station and pulls a blanket down over his legs. “What's going on?” He half shouts. “It's two in the morning!”

“Come here, sit with me,” Oswald pats the couch and Ed complies, letting Oswald pull him closer until his head is on Oswald's shoulder. “Don't get so worked up over something when you don't know all the details.”

Ed latches onto Oswald. “Bruce said to be alert.”

“He says a lot of things. We'll be safe down here.” He pets Ed's hair. “Rest.”

“You know more than you're telling me,” Ed accuses. Why else would he be so calm in the face of this apparent danger?

“Only what I managed to overhear upstairs,” Oswald whispers. His voice is getting slower, and a bit deeper. “But between you and me, I think we both know who Strange would go after in Arkham.”


	25. Chapter 25

Adrenaline propels Bruce across town towards Arkham Asylum, speeding along through the empty streets. Moments after hearing his distress signal he was wide awake, but the late hour begins catching up with him the longer he drives. He settles on blasting music in his car; angry, loud music Alfred would complain about over the communicator if he were awake. It keeps him awake enough to reach Arkham Island, and he pulls his car up next to Jim’s.

When Bruce gets out of his car and walks over to Jim’s driver’s side Jim gets out, covering his mouth with one hand as he yawns. “Don’t know about you, but I was sound asleep when that damn thing started shrieking at me.”

“I can tell,” Bruce indicates the loose sweats and thermal shirt Jim has on under his jacket, and one of his shoes is untied. “Are you in your pajamas?”

“Beat you here,” Jim gloats, and he waves Bruce over to fall in line with him.

“Fair enough.” Not that Bruce regrets putting on his armor. It wouldn’t be very good for Bruce Wayne to show up to help with whatever’s happening at such a late hour, but Batman will fit right in. “What happened exactly? I haven't gotten a chance to check any reports.”

“You’re not going to like it.” Jim shakes his head with disbelief. “It’s fishy as hell. From what I understand the actual incident happened about a day ago.”

“Then why the delay?”

“Don’t know.” Jim shows his badge to the staff member, an older looking woman, at the front door. “He’s with me.”

“I don’t know if they need you to tell them that,” Bruce whispers, and Jim elbows him. He addresses her with his altered voice. “Will you be taking us to Victor Zsasz?”

“The inmate is in Holding, down this way,” she gestures to the East wing and starts walking down the hall. “After Mr. Zsasz killed his fellow inmate-”

Bruce shoots his hand out and grabs Jim’s arm, pulling him aside and assuring the staff to, “continue down the hall and stand by the door. We’ll be with you shortly.”

“Anyone ever tell you you have a strong grip,” Jim grunts when Bruce releases him. “I told you you weren’t going to like it.”

“Who did he kill? Why?”

“Wait until we’re in the interview room.” Jim glances around the hall, and motions with a small jerk of his chin. Bruce looks up above them and sees the camera scanning the hallway. “Fishy, remember? We’re probably on our own out here.”

Bruce nods, and they continue down to Holding. Bruce has been here before, but it’s been at least a year. The room’s been updated, cleaned and scrubbed where it could be and some of the old broken tiles have been replaced. Zsasz is the only one in the holding area, and his knee is bouncing with agitation. When Jim knocks on one of the bars he doesn’t look up, but his lip twitches.

“We don’t need anything else,” he tells the staff member firmly, and she nods once before leaving the room. Bruce rushes through the room and begins pulling power cords out of cameras, watching until the power lights all go dark before joining Jim outside the holding cell. “Victor,” Bruce tries to get him to look up from the floor, but Zsasz doesn’t show any signs that he’s even noticed them. Bruce takes his universal key out of his belt and inserts it into the lock for the holding cell.

“Be careful,” Jim says, and Bruce hesitates. He looks over at Jim, questioning and a bit disappointed. “Don’t look at me like that. He  _ killed  _ someone.”

“There has to be a good reason.”

“Listen to yourself,” Jim chides. “ _ There has to be a good reason _ ?”

“Victor,” Bruce grabs one of the bars of the door and it rattles a bit on its hinges, “tell us what happened. Victor!”

“Bruce.” Jim pulls him away from the door and steadies him. “Steady.”

He takes a few breaths. “Sorry.”

“Let’s go for a walk. I could use some of their shitty coffee.”

“Same,” Zsasz chimes in. When Bruce and Jim turn towards him he doesn’t look up, but they both must have heard him speak.

“Yeah, fine,” Jim sighs. “Two shitty coffees.”

Bruce follows Jim down the hall to the reception area. Jim takes his time with the coffee maker, pouring two cups and adding some of the powdered creamer to one of them. Bruce can feel his impatience growing, but he lets Jim take his time. He can’t deny that he needs to cool down, and Jim’s body language is calm, and somewhat soothing.

“This is disappointing.”

“I know,” Jim agrees. “It isn’t even real creamer.” He glances up at the cameras again, and Bruce nods, accepting one of the cups he assumes is for Victor. “We’ll get this figured out,” he whispers. “I’ll ask security about the incident, and you stay with Zsasz. Try to get him to talk with you. Figure out his side.”

“Of course.” Bruce takes a drink of the coffee, a bit on reflex from having the cup, and he’s thankful he didn’t waste the cup getting himself any of the watery, gritty liquid. Caffeine isn’t worth it when it’s this terrible. “He wasn’t kidding.”

“ _ Worst  _ coffee in existence,” Jim says. “I’ll complain to Lee. There’s no way this doesn’t fall under her jurisdiction. It’s for the good of the families with members here in the asylum.” He shakes his head. “What a night, huh?”

“We’re just getting started.” He watches a couple of nurses as they walk towards Holding, and sighs with relief when they turn before reaching the doorway. “I do think Strange is somehow involved in this.”

“Yeah? Maybe.” Jim shrugs. “Talk to Zsasz, and I’ll catch up with you once I squeeze some information out of the night shift security.”

“You should be careful too,” he says as Jim starts walking away, and Jim waves a hand, letting Bruce know he heard.

He returns to Holding and extends his arm through the bars, offering Zsasz the coffee and not letting his refusal to get up and accept the offer get to him. Bruce unlocks the door and goes inside the cell; there’s a brief, concerning moment where he’s certain Zsasz is considering bolting, although he doesn’t get up from the bench along the back wall.

“Jim’s going to speak with the security staff that was working,” Bruce pauses, willing himself to just accept the reality he’s facing. “We’re looking into the incident.” He hands the paper cup to Zsasz, who takes it without a word and takes a drink. “Jim added creamer, although I don’t think it helps-” Zsasz throws the mostly full cup to the side and it splatters against the wall “-that was unnecessary.”

Zsasz gets up and tries to loom into Bruce’s space, and even at his height he’s still shorter than Bruce by a few inches, but there’s a feral, dangerous edge in his stare. Bruce sets his shoulders and does his best to loom back. “We’re here because we want to help you,” he says angrily.

“Wanna help?” Zsasz says, too loud, and he takes a jagged, rough breath. “Get me out.”

“You’ve killed someone,” Bruce says, and he slams the door shut. “Jim and I know we don’t have all the information, but that doesn’t change the past.” Zsasz clenches his fists, and Bruce plants his feet firmly, ready for the punch when it flies towards his face. He catches Zsasz’s fist with his hand and holds it away. “I don’t want to fight you, but I will.”

Someone clears their throat, and Bruce turns enough to see Jim in his peripheral vision. Jim gives them both a weary look. “If you’re done in there security gave me access to the old security footage for solitary.”

Bruce releases Zsasz’s hand and moves to the door of the cell. And then he remembers he shut the door on himself to keep Zsasz inside. “You’ll have to unlock the door.”

“I hate to ask,” Jim mutters. He twists Bruce’s key and steps aside to allow Bruce to exit the cell. He hands Bruce his key. “Tell me on the way to security.”

Bruce looks back at Zsasz before exiting Holding, but Zsasz is focused on the floor. The moment Jim and Bruce are both outside the room there's an angry, animalistic scream and a crash. Jim makes Bruce continue down the hall with a firm hand on his arm.

“Tension’s kind of off the charts. Give him a few minutes.”

“I don't know what we're supposed to do,” Bruce admits. “He was doing well, taking his medication.”

“Getting restless. Arkham might've peaked for him.” Jim turns a corner and continues toward a back corner of the main building. “There aren't microphones on the cameras in the inmate wings, just images, but that should be enough.”

“What do you mean? About Arkham peaking,” he clarifies.

Jim shrugs. “He's taking meds, but between you and me Lee is hearing a lot of backlash from the doctors about therapy for him. Uncooperative, silent, doesn't take anything seriously, you name it.” Jim pulls a small set of keys out of his jacket pocket and unlocks a door labeled “security, authorized personnel only”. “You know how Zsasz is.”

Bruce nods. “More than most.” He follows him into the room and over to a few aged monitors hooked up to some monitoring equipment. Jim switches on a few monitors and Bruce sits down at the station. He begins opening files, disregarding any that aren't in solitary or the communal spaces. “Were you told where it happened?”

“Solitary block,” he sighs as he settles into a chair next to Bruce. “Night before last.”

Bruce pauses his search and closes his eyes, taking a deep, calming breath and letting it out slowly. “Were they planning on notifying us?”

“If they weren't they'll be hearing from me.” Jim points to a spot on the screen and Bruce closes the other feeds. “Looks like his cell.”

“It isn't the best angle.” The camera only looks into the first few feet of Zsasz's cell, and aside from a familiar, scarred arm Bruce wouldn't be able to tell if he was even inside if he was in the back. “This is the only camera?”

“Nothing else points that way one hundred percent of the time. A few might sweep and get a better look.”

“He wants out. I'm not sure what he'd even plan to do with that sort of freedom, but it's no longer looking like a viable option for his future.”

“That why you were in a fistfight when I got back?”

“Something like that.” Bruce isn't sure how to describe the moments that led to Zsasz's fist coming at his face, but he's certain he won't forget the feeling of hopelessness it gave him. “What time did it happen?”

“Sometime around ten. Go back a few minutes before. Might see something interesting.”

Bruce begins rewinding the recording to the night before last and pauses the screen once he reaches ten minutes before ten, when the hallways are clear. Then he hits play, and he can't help but stare, hardly blinking, and when it's over he looks to Jim for his take. “What am I seeing?”

“Hopefully not what I'm seeing.” Jim shakes his head. “Jesus.”

Bruce rewinds to the beginning of the incident and watches an orderly (brown hair, short stature, mole on his cheek, features suggest he’s young, possibly as young as 25 or 30) marching a patient through solitary. Zsasz pulls his arm back and is no longer in the shot, but it's clear that the door being opened is to his cell. Bruce is glad there isn't any sound, but the way the orderly flinches to a stop only to keep walking out of the frame as quickly as possible. 

“He's in solitary. He's not supposed to share a cell.”

Jim is about to comment but almost as quickly as the inmate was placed in Zsasz's cell a series of orderlies and security rush into the room. There's a silent commotion, some shouting based on angry faces, and one of the nurses has a large, dull syringe of something in hand.

“It’s probably full of tranquilizer,” Jim hazards. “Explains the delay from Zsasz.”

“But not why you weren't notified.” Bruce rewinds the scene to the moment the first orderly left the cell block and focuses on the time it takes for several men to rush in to subdue Zsasz. “Two minute response time.”

“Uncanny,” Jim grumbles. “Or they were waiting.”

“They already had the dose ready,” Bruce points out. He rewinds to the orderly holding a syringe again and pauses the recording. “I could verify the amount if we found out the most likely candidate for the drug, but I've seen enough. Zsasz isn’t the only one at fault.”

“So we have a how,” Jim rewinds to the point where an inmate is being placed in Zsasz's cell, “and the where and when are easy with the camera, but aside from the people we see we don't know  _ who  _ wanted this done, or why.”

Bruce is glad they both already agree that this isn't a simple clerical error and offers up his take on the incident. “The only person we know with any motive is Strange, although we don't know to what end. Getting Zsasz in more trouble does nothing but keep him here, and if Strange knew about the entrance below the water,” which Bruce is certain he did, “then he's already been on the premises and had access to Zsasz.”

“We don't have all the details. I'll go do some digging, you get back to Zsasz, see if he's willing to tell you his side now that we know he might have been coerced into killing this poor schmuck.”

Bruce leaves Jim in the security station and hurries back down the hall to Holding. As he reaches for the door he hears a second voice inside the room, and Bruce grabs one of his smoke bombs from his belt and holds it in his hand, mentally counting to three before opening the door. He scans the room quickly and finds Zsasz right where he left him, but there’s an orderly inside, one with very familiar features (that mole stands out like a sore thumb) and a filled syringe in his hand.

He’s stunned, and Bruce uses the opening to step closer and crowd his personal space. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

“I-I,” he looks behind him to Zsasz, who’s sitting with his back plastered to the back wall, and back to Bruce. His hands are shaking.

“You’re hindering a police investigation.” He grabs the orderly’s arm and holds it up; still gripping the syringe impossibly tight, tight enough that Bruce fears it might break. “This isn’t his medication, is it.”

Zsasz is moving just behind the orderly, daring to come closer, and Bruce can’t find it in himself to tell him off when he closes in and claps a hand on his shoulder, startling him.

“It's, no it's, the doctor-”

Zsasz snatches the syringe out of his hand and jams the needle into the orderly's shoulder. Bruce's mouth is open, half a protest dying on his tongue, and he finds himself allowing Zsasz to push down on the plunger, injecting the orderly with the tranquilizer meant for him. “Listen to the Bat, little man. No more obstruction.”

“Stop,” Bruce grabs Zsasz's hand and forces him to release the plunger of the syringe. “The dose is measured for someone with your weight. It could kill him.”

Zsasz yanks the syringe out a bit harshly and drops it on the cement floor. He shakes out his hand and walks back to the bench in his cell, leaving Bruce to hold up the orderly as his legs give out. His eyes roll back in his head when the drug takes full effect, and Bruce picks him up before he drops to the floor.

There's a cell opposite Zsasz's, mirrored exactly except for two smaller benches instead of one long one, and Bruce juggles the orderly while he pulls out his universal key and unlocks the cell. He places the orderly inside on the floor, not wanting him to roll off the bench and get hurt, and he locks him in with a satisfied click of the door.

He walks back over to Zsasz's cell and leans on the bars. “I judged you too hastily earlier.” Zsasz shrugs. “Jim and I saw the recording. The inmate you killed was brought to you deliberately. We couldn't see inside, but I'd like to hear from you what happened once he entered your cell.”

“Guy stepped in,” Zsasz purses his lips, pausing, “Did some,” he waves his hand, “thing, to himself. Dropped dead.”

Bruce blinks. “You didn't kill him?” Zsasz shrugs. Bruce feels an immediate, profound sense of relief, but he reins it in, because as much as he'd love to trust Zsasz he knows this could be a lie to get Bruce to let him go. “They sedated you. It's why you waited so long before signalling for us.”

Zsasz doesn't answer, but he does come closer, wrapping one hand around the bars of the cell door and giving it a firm shake. “Planning on opening this?”

“Wait for Jim to come back. I don't want him jumping to conclusions.”

“Like you?” Zsasz stares at Bruce intently, then smirks for just a fraction of a second.

They wait in relative silence; Bruce takes a few opportunities to check on the orderly in the other cell, and each time he's breathing normally. He uses the other half of his time to doze against the wall opposite the door.

When Jim returns, another bad cup of coffee in hand, he takes in Bruce, then Zsasz, and he double takes when he sees the orderly in the cell, still unconscious and likely to stay that way. The look he gives Bruce is pleading. “Things got a bit out of hand.”

Jim sighs, log suffering and tired, and he shakes his head. “Okay.”

He doesn’t ask, but Bruce feels the need to fill him in. “When I returned to Holding I found this man attempting to sedate Victor. I can't imagine he would actually be successful, but the attempt means that someone didn't want Victor to tell me his side.” Bruce moves away from the back wall and over to Jim. “What have you learned.”

“Nothing good. We need to move fast.” Jim turns to Zsasz and asks, “you aware you were supposed to be transferred?” Zsasz's eyes widen a fraction, and he shakes his head. “Yeah, that's what I was afraid of.”

“They wanted him sedated for transport,” Bruce hypothesizes. “But it wore off too soon.”

“Good thing they don't strip search,” Zsasz says casually. Bruce is fairly certain they  _ do _ , but he doesn't ask for clarification.

“Why wouldn't you be notified of a transfer? He's a very high profile inmate.”

“My guess? It's fake.” Jim pulls out a few pieces of paper from his pocket and hands them to Bruce. “This is the name of the company, but the only address I could find is a vacant lot. It's a cover, and now that we know this was the motive, I have a good idea why they sent an inmate to Zsasz's cell.” Jim takes back the papers from Bruce once he's done looking at the fake transfer papers and shoves them in his jacket pocket. “Emergency transfers don't need approval.”

“An inmate killing someone else poses a sufficient risk to the staff and other inmates.”

“Exactly.” Jim glances over at the orderly before he speaks again. “We need to use this to our advantage. The underlying paperwork is all here, but we need the destination to be our choice.”

“I'll call Ed,” Bruce offers. “He and Oswald should know a thing or two about shell companies.”

-

It will take a few hours, time Bruce isn't sure they have, but he and Jim keep loitering around Arkham, finding excuses to extend their visit and keep Zsasz locked away in Holding and out of Strange's reach. One of them is always present, to keep Zsasz company and to keep an eye on the orderly, who's bound to wake up eventually and run to the nearest doctor, proclaiming Batman helped the dangerous inmate stab him with a needle. It isn't entirely true, but it also isn't completely false, and it would definitely make their plan more difficult.

At one point they give up on legitimate strategies and take turns sleeping against the wall in Holding. Bruce's armor still isn't comfortable to sleep in but he can't risk taking it off until they get Zsasz out. It's beginning to chafe his neck; he can't imagine it's doing him any favors elsewhere.

At noon on the dot his communicator beeps once, and Ed’s voice fills his ear. “I hope you realize it’s much easier to fake documents from scratch then find and change  _ every  _ record of a preexisting transfer request?”

“So the company is ready?”

“Yes, and I’ve altered the electronic copies for the transfers,” Ed grumbles. He mumbles something to someone beyond the microphone’s capabilities, muttered small talk and a few soft chuckles. “Oswald named your company.”

“The name doesn’t matter,” Bruce says. He’s certain it’s some sort of personal dig, something Oswald found funny in the early hours of the morning, but they’re already on borrowed time. Bruce isn’t looking forward to sedating the orderly a second time, but he will if he has to. “You’re certain it’s believable?”

“As long as you find any physical copies and destroy them no one will find out.” Ed sounds like he’s fading, not that Bruce is surprised. He was awake when Bruce left the Manor, and if he did manage to sleep it can’t have been for more than a couple hours. “Record rooms, the transport vehicle. I’m an escape, a blessing and a curse, and the more you want me the harder I am to get. What am I?”

“Sleep. We shouldn’t need anything else for the transfer, thank you.” Bruce walks over to where Jim is sitting and taps the top of his head. “Expect us soon.” He switches off his communicator and turns his attention to Jim. “We need to destroy some documents.”

“Great,” Jim groans and cracks his neck, rubbing the sore muscles and stretching out his shoulders. “One more thing added to the list.”

“I can manage,” Bruce says. He’s not exactly subtle walking around Arkham but sometimes that’s a good thing. People will be distracted by his presence, hopefully enough that it won’t be noticed when he takes paperwork out of the Records Room. “I’ll get the copy from Records and the transport van.”

“I’ll be here.” Jim gets up off the floor and moves over to the cell with the orderly. “I’ll be honest I’m not looking forward to when he wakes up.”

“There’s still a partial dose in the syringe,” Bruce says. He points to the syringe still lying on the floor, undamaged aside from a few scratches on the outer surface from when it hit the concrete.

“Yeah, that’s not really the part I had a problem with.” Jim bends over and picks it up and, after some hesitation, hands the syringe to Zsasz. “Only if he wakes up,” he warns Zsasz. “And probably not even then.”

Zsasz winks at him. “Sure thing Gordon.”

“I’ll move quickly.” Bruce slips out into the hallway and begins walking towards the Records Room. He’s been there several times before, but there’s no guarantee that Zsasz’s transfer will actually be in his files.

But as Bruce rounds the corner and nods to the receptionist as she allows him to enter the administrative block, he realizes that there’s no reason Strange would go to such lengths to make the transfer appear legitimate and necessary only to have some of the key information mission. He’s hiding in plain sight, making it seem like this is for the good of Arkham’s inmates and staff, and the only thing that stopped him from getting what he wanted was Zsasz’s messed up metabolism.

And he’s right. Finding Zsasz’s file is simple, and inside the very front of the thick manilla folder is a transfer form, effective today. Bruce takes the form and slips it into a free pouch of his belt before returning the file to its proper place. Following that, he makes his way to the loading dock and finds the van scheduled to transfer Zsasz to SimTech Medical, and he pockets it as well.

A simple conversation with reception, a claim that the form for the transfer has gone missing, and he’s handed a fresh copy with the corrected information. The plan is going smoothly, so smoothly that Bruce expects to find Jim at gunpoint when he returns to Holding, but he’s more or less where Bruce left him, although he’s watching the orderly a bit closer than he was before Bruce left.

“Guy rolled over and I nearly had a heart attack.” Jim moves away from the cell and over to Bruce. “Any trouble finding the forms?”

“No, as much as I’m loathe to admit it, Strange has made this look very legitimate.” Bruce hands the folded up copies of the original forms to Jim, and the unfolded, clean copy of the changed form. “You’re driving, by request of the head of, oh, that’s Lee. Clever.”

“She’ll love hearing about that one,” he sighs. “And the rest of this.”

“It was all necessary.”

“Yeah, yeah it was,” he sighs. “You ready to get your wish Zsasz?”

-

The transport van is older, and the back is nothing but a couple benches bolted into the walls of the truck, but neither Bruce or Jim wanted to waste time complaining. During Zsasz’s loading (in a straightjacket, which he was very much against but agreed when the alternative was not leaving) the orderlies asked in a near constant stream if Jim was certain he and the Batman could handle driving Zsasz several hours away, and every time Jim has to politely thank them but refuse. His patience is clearly worn thin by the time he starts the van and they pull out of Arkham’s lot.

“Any minute now this truck is going to blow a tire,” Jim mutters.

“I know what you mean.” Bruce hates how uneasy he is in the face of something going  _ right  _ for once, but having to endure Strange’s plans for nearly a year has jaded him against trusting anything that’s too easy. “The orderly Zsasz sedated was still asleep when we left, right?”

“He was still out cold,” Jim says. He turns onto the bridge and breathes a sigh of relief. Every mile they put between them and Arkham feels like a tiny victory. “For the record, I never want to have to do this again.”

“Once we catch Strange we won't have to.” Although Bruce isn't sure how that's going to happen just yet. He decides not to think about it for now. “Have I ever told you about the first time I met Victor Zsasz?”

“I bet that was interesting.”

“I was six,” he say, and Jim goes quiet. “My father was invited to one of Carmine's parties, and he brought me along. I think my mother was visiting family at the time. I can't imagine what Alfred was doing, but he wasn't there.” Bruce closes his eyes for a moment to recall the memory properly. “Zsasz babysat me for a couple hours while my father and Carmine talked.”

Jim shakes his head. “I can accept Oswald and Ed doing things that sound normal, but Zsasz babysitting? Is there some bet I don't know about? You're supposed to see what crazy stories I'll believe?”

“I know it's unbelievable, but it's true.” He can still remember the book series he loved reading at that age. “He taught me something very valuable that day. Something I didn't recall until much later in life. Niceness doesn't mean someone is good. He was kind to me when he didn't have to be. I like to think that means there's some measure of intent goodness in him, and possibly by extension everyone, or at least most people.”

“I swear to God if Oswald laughs in my face because I believe you I'll-” there's a series of thumps from the back of the truck and Jim sighs. “So much for this being easy.”

“I'll go in back,” Bruce says. “When it's convenient pull over.”

“Not going to do some crazy stunt to get back there?”

The thought of doing any sort of flip or scaling the van makes Bruce's legs ache with phantom pains. “It would be too risky when we're trying to maintain a low profile.”

Jim pulls the van into the alley in a bustling neighborhood Downtown. No one pays them any attention, no more than a cursory glance, probably spared just to determine whether or not the van will run them over. Most people don't even look up.

Bruce walks to the back of the van and opens the door wide enough to let himself inside. Zsasz is no longer sitting on the bench, bench the thumping, and he's shaky, jiggling his leg while trying, and failing, to appear calm.

“It's been a taxing day,” Bruce says. He glances through the high grate to the cab, and signals Jim to go ahead. The faster they get Zsasz out of here the better. He pulls back his cowl and finally addresses some of the discomfort it's been causing him for the last hour. “We'll be at the Manor shortly. In the meantime, I see no reason why you have to stay in the straightjacket.”

The uncomfortable cough from the front cab makes Bruce think Jim is less than supportive of this thought, but Zsasz is already moving so Bruce can get at the fastenings in the back. He isn't any calmer with the sleeves undone, but his shoulders are more relaxed now that they aren't being pulled by the straightjacket.

Bruce sits on the bench farthest from Zsasz and watches him while Jim begins driving out of the alley. He can't remember the last time he saw Zsasz this agitated. He's been irritable, and uncooperative, but this is something else. He stands up and moves to the small grate to ask Jim for his opinion.

“Do you have an explanation for Zsasz's behavior?” He glances down to see if Zsasz has any sort of input about himself, but he doesn't seem to even realize that Bruce has moved. “He's jittery, and agitated.”

Jim doesn't respond, but he does switch on the radio to something upbeat and not anything Bruce would have expected him to like. “This helped before.”

“When you were working together to rescue me?”

“Something like that,” Jim mutters. He doesn't elaborate. “He was in a bad place.”

“And the music helped,” Bruce says.

“It kept him from going berserk,” Jim mutters. “He was damn close to it though.”

“Is there anything else?” Bruce watches Zsasz from the corner of his eye, and Zsasz glares at him.

Jim sighs. “Yeah, he made a few new tallies, but that's not an option.”

“It's a compulsion,” Bruce whispers. “Something he needs to do.”

“We're not enabling anyone in this van. It won't help him.” Jim is firm, and Bruce turns away from the window to crouch in front of Zsasz.

“Did you really not kill him?” Bruce whispers. Zsasz's expression hardens. “Recovery isn't a straight line. Honestly is more important than pretending to be good. If you did, I understand. when we look back on your road to recovery this will only be a speed bump.”

He waits, and Zsasz continues to glare at him, defiant and irritated. Bruce is certain he's going to be punched in the stomach at any second. Then Zsasz clears his throat, and rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “You get any to go box from that place?”

Bruce has to take a few moments to decipher Zsasz's meaning, but once he does he quietly gasps, near silent. “Oh. Your medication.”

Zsasz raises one hand and gives Bruce a thumbs up.

“Jim,” Bruce calls out to him, “we need to stop. I know what will help.”

-

“Medication withdrawal.” Jim shakes his head. “Good call.”

Bruce leans his arms on Jim's open window and nods. “I can't imagine it takes effect that fast, but he looked calmer after taking it.”

“Placebo does wonders.” Jim starts the van up again. “If you're done messing around out there we should get going.”

“I-” tires screech behind them, and Bruce turns, watching cars dodge someone in the street, walking towards their van. “Jim, go to the Manor.”

He looks out the window over Bruce's shoulder and swears. “How'd she find us?”

Bruce grabs a batarang from his belt and throws it at Firefly, watching as she uses her flamethrower to knock it off course. “That doesn't matter now. Go.”

Bruce charges straight for her, feinting right when she tries to blast Bruce with a column of fire. He throws a flash grenade at her, covering his eyes when it goes off, but she doesn't stop, and he's forced to back away a bit and regroup.

The van peels out and Bruce spares a second to glance back to watch it leave the scene. Other cars are trying to follow along, trailing after the van and turning off when it keeps barreling down the highway. For now, it seems safe enough. He focuses on Firefly.

She smiles at him, and charges, fire spitting from the end of her flamethrower, leaving a trail of scorched concrete behind her as she tries to catch Bruce's legs. He's faster than her, but only just. He can feel the heat through his heavy boots.

“You don't have to keep fighting for him,” Bruce tells her. She doesn't respond, and instead forces Bruce back again, and again. He does his best to lead her into an unoccupied alley without allowing himself to be cornered.

He stops retreating when she appears to stop charging, and he grabs a sticky, non-flammable material he and Alfred have been experimenting with in the lab. If he can just block up her flamethrower most of her power is gone. Left feint, roll, throw. Simple.

There's a hiss and crackle overhead, and Bruce looks up at an aged outdoor speaker, looking very out of place in the new development surrounding it. He puts the material back in his belt and straightens.

“Ah, Batman, I am glad to see you're still predictable,” Strange's voice echoes off the brick buildings; it's too loud, and there's a fair amount of feedback from the speaker.

“Where are you?” Bruce looks into each window but doesn't find Strange behind any of them.

“I'm sure you're trying to find out how or why, but I'll save you the trouble. I'm afraid good help is hard to find, and my associate neglected to install a microphone on your end. Something to improve on for next time.”

“Bridgett,” he calls for her, but she's gone. He's alone. “No.”

“I do hope to see you again soon.”

Before Strange even starts reciting the phrase Bruce scrambles for a pair of earplugs. He drops one, ignores it in favor of a new pair, and he rips off his cowl so he can shove them in his ears. It's not enough, he can still hear the words, and he runs to the back of the alley, tossing trash cans around, focusing on the clanging over Strange's booming voice, and he cowers with his eyes shut tight. Bruce holds his hands over his ears and hums loudly, drowning out all noise that isn't himself. After some time his voice starts cracking from the effort, and he slowly opens his eyes.

He's alone, and the alley is silent.


	26. Chapter 26

He can already tell he's going to regret sleeping on a cot, although he slept better than he would have upstairs. Somehow he can ignore openness of the cave when the walls are thick, natural stone rather than simple brick and mortar. Maybe it's the lack of windows.

Ed doesn't want to find out how stiff his neck is just yet, so even though his eyes are open he refuses to move an inch. Instead he watches Oswald as he sleeps, ignoring the blurriness. His glasses are on the small table by Oswald’s head, which he has deemed too far to bother. He'd much rather stay here.

Oswald claimed the couch before Ed even had a chance to consider sleeping arrangements, although between the two of them Oswald would fare much worse sleeping on the cot. It's one of those horrid cloth and dowel models; the lack of any proper mattress means it's stiff as a board, but somehow also sags down the middle in a way that causes Ed's back to kink. There was the option of using a gurney, but Nora is using the good one, and if Ed's back hurts from the cot he can't imagine what it would be like using the well worn, somewhat dilapidated gurney back in Bruce's storage.

“You aren't very subtle when you're staring like that,” Oswald murmurs, eyes still closed and limbs loose.

“I wasn't trying to be,” Ed says back. He reaches out a hand and touches Oswald's hand, then takes it when he turns it over. “I hear someone in the drive.”

“Already?” Oswald grimaces and lifts his head a fraction, then puts it back down on his pillow with a defeated sigh. He lifts his left arm and turns his watch towards his face. “No rest for the wicked,” he sighs. “I'm sure Bruce can handle opening a  _ door _ by himself.”

So Oswald doesn't want to get up either. Good. “We should use a real bed.”

“You're making helping Bruce sound like the preferred alternative. You really want to go all the way upstairs?”

“Wanting and being able are two separate beasts.” Ed groans when his neck pops as he tries to sit up. They're both going to need to soak in the tub after this.

Oswald chuckles quietly and pushes himself up, one arm securely gripping the back of the couch and the other still holding Ed's hand, which he squeezes as he rights himself. “I'm going to lodge a formal complaint with our host. How can he expect us to remain down here for our safety and well-being if we're going to need expensive chiropractic treatments just to be able to move?”

“Petition for a bed,” Ed suggests. He musters the strength to sit up, but just barely. His lower back is stiff, but his neck appears to have righted itself after the crack back into place. Oswald hands him his glasses and Ed puts them on, groaning with self pity when he learns they're smudged.

“You fell asleep with them on. It's your own fault.”

He begins cleaning them on his wrinkled shirt and examines them against the light. Over by the entrance he can hear a single voice, Jim, and he strains to hear the words clearly. “... don't have all day,” and then it becomes inaudible. “Wake-”

Ed's eyes widen and he pushes himself up off the cot, moving as fast as he's able over to the car port. Jim is there, standing at the back of a transport van, and then he's crawling inside. Ed hurries around the back to the door in time to watch Jim Gordon make one of the biggest mistakes of his life.

“Jim, Jim it's unwise to wake him-” he gapes as Zsasz goes from sleeping on the floor of the van to charging at Jim in a split second, one arm already cocked and swinging before the shock fully registers on Jim’s face. Jim takes the punch square on the jaw and he goes down.

“Jim!” Ed gasps, but it calls attention to himself and Zsasz, with all of his speed and agility but none of the visual recognition, starts stalking towards him. Ed backs up, slowly, leading Zsasz away from the car port, trying to coax him across the Batcave without agitating him further. “Slowly,” Ed whispers to himself, “maintain eye contact.”

He doesn’t speak, Ed’s fairly certain Zsasz is more asleep than awake at this point. Zsasz continues following him, predatory, but also a bit curious, which Ed hopes is a sign that he’s starting to wake up fully. There’s no time to divert his attention to Jim; he just hopes the punch knocked Jim out temporarily. If things go south Ed isn’t capable of dealing with Zsasz on his own.

The main issue with having to maintain eye contact is Ed doesn’t see where he’s going, and a misplaced step near the lab stations makes him stumble and fall backwards with a startled cry. Just as quickly as he’s down he’s being dragged back up; Zsasz’s hand closes around the front of his shirt, pulling the neck tight and making it hard to maintain steady breathing. His leg twists uncomfortably, and his vision gets spotty.

“Victor!” a familiar voice echoes through the space, and by the time Oswald is in Ed’s line of sight he’s  _ slapping  _ Zsasz on the cheek, which causes him to drop Ed unceremoniously to the ground. “Now that I have your attention-” Zsasz backs Oswald up, hop/hobbling until his back hits a wall, and all Ed can do is  _ watch  _ as he pushes Oswald against the wall, holding him up on the tips of his toes. Oswald's voice is strained, but he's somehow still  _ scolding  _ Zsasz. “I cannot  _ believe  _ the deplorable behavior I'm having to witness. You are insulting our  _ host.  _ No employee of mine is going,” he grunts when Zsasz lifts him up a bit higher, “no employee of mine is going to cause a full scale riot just because someone woke him from his nap.”

“Oswald I don't think-”

“Quiet, please,” he snaps at Ed, glaring defiantly as Zsasz. “Now, you're going to go in that room,” he points across the way at the safe room, “and you're going to stop behaving like a child. I'd hate to have to cut a decent employee off because he can't hold himself together for five minutes.”

Something gets through to him, and he slowly lets Oswald down. Ed scrambles up as fast as he's able and limps over to the safe room. Zsasz doesn't look at either of them once Ed has the door open, and a quick glance inside tells Ed he's already mostly back to sleep; he's already lying on the futon with his eyes closed.

“Oswald,” Ed whispers, moving to him and holding out his hands, not sure if he's ready to be touched after being manhandled like that.

“I'm fine,” he says. His hands are shaking. “You're limping.”

“I'll be fine.” His leg hurts but the worst of it is already fading to dull ache.

“James!” Oswald shouts down to the other end of the Batcave. “James Gordon! I see your eyes are open!”

Ed can just barely hear a soft groan and Jim gingerly touches his face. He shouts back, “feels like I got hit by a truck!”

“He'll live,” Oswald says.

Ed nods. Things could have been much wo- “Nora.”

He leaves Oswald by the safe room and hurries over to the medical suite. She isn't in the bed, and the sheets are disheveled. Ed scans the immediate area, and he happens upon a large cabinet with one door cracked ajar. He opens it slowly, and inside at the bottom he finds Nora, holding her air canister with one arm and a blanket from the bed in the other.

“Are you short of breath?” he asks, trying to kneel down with moderate success, although he's going to need to address the popping sound.

She shakes her head. “I’m alright. I hid when I heard shouting.”

“It's safe now.” Ed laughs to himself. “Believe it or not, he's our ally.”

-

Ed stares at the steaming tub just beyond the bathroom doorway with longing, wishing he had moved just a bit faster, but he sighs wistfully and turns back to Jim. “Could you repeat that?”

“Lee's coming in,” he says, and he pulls the door shut so Ed can't daydream again. “Zsasz just became her patient, and we need to get her up to speed.”

Ed clutches his towel a bit closer to his chest. He was just  _ so close _ . “We’re meeting  _ now _ , I assume.”

“You have an hour, and she'll want to look at this.” He points to his swollen, bruised jaw and rubs it gently. “That should buy you a little time.”

Ed grabs the door handle and glances back at Jim for a moment, and when Jim nods Ed retreats into the safety and warmth of the bathroom. He sets his towel down on a counter along with his glasses, and he begins removing and folding his clothes.

“You managed to fend him off?” Oswald asks from his place near the wall. He's already dressed down to just a bathrobe. “I was ready to defend your right to soak in the tub with me if he didn't relent.”

“How chivalrous,” Ed chuckles. He can only imagine the look on Jim’s face. “Jim seems to have taken the worst of it.”

“Good, considering he's the cause.” Oswald trails a few fingers through the bubbly, steaming water. “Are you going to just stand there staring?” Oswald asks, and when Ed only smiles he undoes the tie of his robe before letting it fall to the floor. He raises one eyebrow in question, and Ed takes a moment to finish removing the last of his clothes while Oswald gets in the tub.

He gets in slowly, hissing when bending his knee increases the pain, but the heat of the tub begins soothing away some of the underlying ache, and he sighs contently once his legs are stretched out on either side of Oswald’s.

“What did he want exactly?”

“Lee’s coming here for a meeting about Zsasz.” He rests the back of his head against the side of the tub. “How much resistance would there be if I suggested we just meet in here?”

“I can assure you it would all be from me, because I don’t remember hearing Jim say  _ I  _ was expected to be there.” Oswald flicks some of the bubbles over to Ed’s half of the tub. “I don’t see why this has to happen  _ today _ . Sleepwalking aside I was under the impression that things went well.”

“There weren’t any broken bones,” Ed murmurs. “Although if you’d like I’m sure Lee would perform any examinations if you thought they were necessary.”

“I’ve endured much worse,” he says this calmly, and he taps his foot against Ed’s leg, a silent request for a calf rub, which Ed complies to. “She can’t  _ do  _ anything either except tell me what I already know.”

Ed’s reluctant to have her check on his knee for the same reason. He focuses on massaging away the tense, stiff feel of Oswald’s calf, contemplating moving higher up his bad leg once he’s finished rubbing Oswald’s ankle. Oswald looks half asleep, pliant, possibly open and willing to be honest with Ed about a few things. It’s worth a try. “You called this step four.”

“I did,” Oswald mumbles, sighing and sinking down another inch into the water, letting a bit of it slosh over the side of the tub. “And it was.”

“Forcing Arkham to transfer Zsasz was step four?” Ed rephrases, watching Oswald for his reaction. There isn’t much, but Oswald does send his sleepy, half awake glare Ed’s way. Ed doesn’t take back his accusation, and he waits.

Oswald sighs again, deeper, and a bit irritated. He grabs hold of Ed’s ankle under the water, rubbing his thumb back and forth over Ed’s medial malleolus. “That sounded an awful lot like an  _ accusation,  _ Ed.”

“Maybe it wouldn’t have to be if you  _ told me  _ your plan,” Ed huffs. His mouth tastes bitter and unpleasant; they’re supposed to be a  _ team _ . “You were awfully pleased with yourself when this began.”

“Do you honestly want to  _ ruin  _ a perfectly relaxing bath with this?” Oswald asks, nearly pleads if he was prone to that sort of thing, but Ed holds his ground, and Oswald groans. “Fine, alright, I will  _ tell  _ you, but you’re not allowed to accuse me of anything until I’m done.”

“Deal,” Ed says. He rubs a particularly tense spot on Oswald’s lower leg, right behind the knee. A truce of sorts, or maybe a preemptive apology. Either way the tension it drains out of Oswald’s posture calms Ed’s frayed nerves a bit. “What is step four?”

“Was,” Oswald corrects. “Unfortunately my titles haven't had quite the flair and finesse they used to, but time isn’t exactly on our sides. ‘Getting Zsasz’ was my working title.” He swishes some of the water near his chest, moving bubbles around and focusing on the way they lazily flow on top of the water. “You think I had something to do with his Arkham incident.” It isn’t a question, not that Ed’s been all that subtle, and he eyes Ed with his own accusational stare. Ed nods, staring down at the rippling tub water. “Well, you’re wrong. I didn’t manipulate anyone or anything in Arkham.” Oswald shifts up in the tub, dragging his leg out of Ed’s hands and moving away from his side of the tub and closer to Ed. “We all saw this coming. Strange lost Victor, a blow I can assure you. Zsasz might not have the scientific mind but his skill is unmatched. I personally would have acted sooner while Victor was already struggling, but the man has his flaws. Overconfidence,” Oswald whispers, and he shakes his head, chuckling to himself, then he sobers, expression settling somewhere between neutral and almost sad. “I did consider alternatives if Strange dragged his feet.”

“Oswald we’re retired,” he says lowly, feeling hurt.

“Ed please,” he scoffs. “The likelihood of having to act before Strange was impossibly low.”

“But you considered-”

“I consider a lot of things, Ed,” he snaps. “I consider hunting down Barbara and finally finishing her off with my bare hands. I consider sending wave after wave of thugs to her operations and opening fire. I am allowed to fantasize about removing the person making our lives hell. But  _ everyone  _ is predictable, including Strange, and that means I don’t have to  _ act _ . I can just watch the pieces fall into place with a glass of wine in hand.” He grabs onto Ed’s hand under the water. “He’s  _ just a man _ , and I intend to use that against him without lifting a finger.”

-

Oswald abandons Ed in favor of continuing his soak, sighting his stiff muscles and aching leg as his reason, and Ed doesn't push the issue. If he had a choice  _ he  _ wouldn't be leaving the tub either, but Jim singled Ed out, probably to explain what he and Oswald did for the shell company.

Ed doesn't try to hide his displeasure as he enters the dining room, but his expression softens when he sees Bruce. He's visibly shaken, and although Ed doesn't know for certain he's sure Strange had something to do with it. He coughs as he walks over to help signs his approach, and it seems to work since Bruce doesn't startle when he sits down.

“You weren’t with the van,” Ed says after a beat. Bruce nods. “I don’t know what Jim has told you about Zsasz’s arrival.”

“That Oswald handled the situation when he arrived with Zsasz,” Bruce says, a bit robotic in his responses but his voice isn’t shaking. He rubs his face with his hands and when he looks at Ed properly it appears that he’s come back to himself. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

“This isn’t the first time it’s happened, although now that Jim knows about Zsasz’s little sleepwalking issue I imagine it will be the last time any of us is the cause.” Bruce looks away, watching through a doorway to his left. Ed glances over but sees no one coming. “Jim mentioned you were pursued.”

“I'll discuss everything once Lee and Jim get here.”

In other words, Bruce would rather not talk about it, and Ed doesn't ask any more questions. He waits in the somewhat awkward silence with Bruce until Lee and Jim both enter the dining room, the latter with an ice pack he's holding to his bruised cheek. He's also no longer wearing his sleepwear. Ed wasn't aware that he left the Manor.

“Has Jim told you anything?” Bruce asks Lee. She sits down with a heavy sigh and gives Jim a look.

“He tells me I have a new private patient at some outside facility,” she answers, giving Ed a dirty look as well. He shrinks a bit, but reminds himself that he was  _ told  _ to fake a company by the Commissioner himself. It doesn't get much more official than that. “Or in other words broke Victor Zsasz out of Arkham.” Oh she is  _ very  _ irritated. She looks to Ed. “How about you start?”

“Ah,” Ed flounders for a bit, “well, I was asleep during the first few hours, but I received a phone call from Bruce, and Jim,” he looks to them both, “about needing a shell company and transfer forms for Victor Zsasz. Oswald and I set something up as fast as we were able, and I scrubbed the old paperwork so our new company was his official destination. Meaning here, obviously, but the paperwork-”

“Thank you,” she interrupts, and Ed clicks his teeth when he shuts his mouth too fast. “You had Ed forge paperwork for a transfer of a dangerous inmate to a private residence you're staging as a mental health facility. Does that cover everything?”

“I believe so unless Jim or Bruce have something to add,” Ed says. “As I said before, I was asleep.” He's not afraid of throwing them all under the bus if it means Lee won't keep directing her anger at him.

“We didn't have a lot of time to decide our plan until it was already in motion,” Bruce explains. “We went to Arkham because Zsasz sent us a distress signal. They were attempting an emergency transfer of him while he was sedated, but his metabolism processed the sedative quicker then they must have anticipated. He was leaving Arkham whether we intervened or not.”

“There was a van ready to go by the time we got there,” Jim adds. “The only problem was Zsasz was awake, and he's not an idiot. I would have told him he's being transferred. He knew something was up.”

“And the inmate,” Lee pivots, rubbing her temple with one hand. “The one brought to his cell. What about that? I've had my new job for a couple  _ months _ and there was a murder in my jurisdiction, and it sounds like the incompetence that let it happen was deliberate. So I'm assuming this means I have actions I need to put into motion.”

Jim sighs and shifts his ice pack. “You’re probably right. I took a copy of the security footage to try and figure out the orderlies’ names based on employee records. The one Zsasz sedated wasn't wearing a name badge.”

“The one he sedated,” she repeats.

“In self defense.” Bruce says. Ed almost wishes he could have seen that. Almost. "And something Zsasz told me suggests the inmate may have actually killed himself,” Bruce says quietly. “Zsasz has been taking his medication, and all reports indicated he was at least attempting to not cause trouble at Arkham. We think Strange staged an emergency in order to avoid needing yours or Jim's approval for a transfer to his own shell company.”

“Why didn't you just tell me last night?” She directs this question at Jim, and he shrugs. “Jim.”

“You were sleeping!” he blurts out, then rambling on, “and you had that emergency at the hospital the night before. It was two in the morning. I didn't want to wake you when nothing could be- don't laugh I was half awake.”

Ed feels like he's missing some minor detail but he can't imagine Jim and Lee are going to want him prying into exactly _ why _ Jim knows such specific details about Lee's nights, so he pushes the questions aside for later use, maybe to deflect if things feel too personal at his next session.

Lee covers her mouth and tries to stop laughing with moderate success. “Jim, please, no chivalry. I've had enough of that in my life.” She clears her throat and calms the rest of the way. “That goes for all of you. I'm a doctor. I'm used to being on call, and I'd rather not be the last to know about something.”

“There's more,” Bruce says. “Firefly, Bridget Pike, she followed us. Or more accurately, I suppose she was sent to our location when we were stopped momentarily. I don't think she's acting of her own free will, but unlike Victor she doesn't appear to have attempted to break the control. We may want to confer with Victor about any details he may know if he's willing to talk.”

“And you're going to attempt to help her too?” Lee asks. She doesn't sound surprised, but Ed can imagine she's trying to mentally count the number of bedrooms in the Manor. Ed certainly is; if he closes his eyes he can recall the blueprints, but Bruce is already moving ahead and he wants to keep up.

“We'll need to be careful. Her body and the fireproof suit fused during her accident, and I'm not certain there's a shock strong enough to penetrate through the layers that isn't also fatal.” Bruce sighs, tired, edged with something Ed assumes is mild distress. He sits forward in his seat. “Right now I'm more concerned about Strange. Even though Zsasz showed us the secret entrance he must have managed to get inside without being detected.”

“The GCPD started monitoring the tunnel it's connected to,” Jim says, “and there's been no activity. Arkham's a big place though. He could camp out somewhere inside for weeks. I was going to ask Ed to look into the blueprints.”

“I can do that,” Ed agrees, but there's a strange sense of unease building in his chest. Probably Strange, although he recalls Oswald’s insistence that he's just a man, and men make mistakes. It helps.

“He may have established a redundant monitoring system for himself within the facility,” Bruce hypothesizes. “Something not immediately apparent. But it would explain how he knew we were taking Zsasz somewhere else.”

Ed bites the end of his tongue and nods, agreeing, although the unease is back tenfold. Lee watches him with an odd look on her face but she doesn't say anything.

“Doesn't explain that equipment you showed me in the alley,” Jim says. “Who the hell puts a PA system in the new development in Midtown?”

Ed blinks, and his brow creases. “A PA system,” he repeats. His neck feels too warm, and he rubs one side nervously, worried he's sweating.

“It was older than the surrounding infrastructure by at least a decade,” Bruce says.

Ed closes his eyes and groans softly, feeling the urge to crawl under something and not come out, or maybe to scream at the top of his lungs. His chest feels tight and itchy, and cold. “I know why,” he whispers, without opening his eyes. He can feel the judgmental stares anyway. “It's my network.”

There's a long, awkward silence, and Ed cracks one eye open, prepared to take the brunt of their anger, but he's met with confusion. Jim asks, “the one you used to watch the city?”

“You spy on the city?” Lee jumps in before Ed can answer, and he feels a faint flush. He has a feeling  _ that's  _ coming up in the next session.

“I thought you said that was down,” Jim says.

“It was, at least, it is from my perspective,” Ed explains. “ _ Barbara  _ decided she wanted it for herself.”

Jim's expression flickers through a few distinct emotions the most prominent being disbelief followed by a very pained, disappointed downturn of his eyes. He looks at Ed right in the eye, and even though he doesn't speak Ed can feel the exasperated “why” he wants to ask like a clamp around his windpipe.

“Why didn't you mention this?” Bruce asks. His expression is less disappointed, but there's a hint of betrayal Ed  _ definitely  _ doesn't like. “This kind of power in Strange's hands is incredibly dangerous.”

“I  _ realize  _ this,” Ed says. “Old habits are hard to break.” And he can feel them sliding back into place, locking back in place like puzzle pieces.  _ Hide your best secrets for yourself _ , he thinks. Gotham isn't kind to people like  _ him _ , regardless of what this ragtag group may claim. Oswald would understand; he's already planning things behind their backs. “Barbara led me to believe that the network was  _ destroyed _ , and Selina's survey of my footmen going quiet corroborated this.”

“And the PA?”

“Self-preservation,” he says this sharply, directing it at Jim. “It was better that going in person, before,” he trails off. He's sure they know what he means.

Bruce is quiet for a few beats. “Strange told me his associate set it up.”

Ed's blood starts to boil, and he swallows down his first outburst, then a second. His voice feels grating and thick when he speaks. “I. Am not. His associate.” He clenches his fists over his knees, and when he can't contain the energy pulsing in his legs he stands. “He's  _ lying _ . Or he's,” Ed grinds his teeth, “he's  _ assuming  _ I will be under his control.”

“We need a map of your network,” Jim says. “ _ All  _ of it. People, places, everything.”

Ed finds himself turning to Lee, and the silent, near imperceptible understanding she looks at him with settles him a bit. “Fine,” he says, voice still low and scratching at his throat. He should have let himself scream. “I'll include some cryptic details about Oswald and my new hideout as a courtesy.”

“You don't have to go,” Bruce says, standing himself, like he'll physically keep them here if he has to.

“We're the ones Barbara is after,” he says. “Fish can only keep her entertained for so long.”

Jim's upper lip twitches. “Fish.”

“Yes,” Ed confirms, feeling the urge to demean the GCPD and their lack of progress as they bumble through Gotham. His glare must convey enough, because Jim gets up from the table and stalks off to another room.

“Jim,” Bruce calls after him, glancing to Ed with an unclear expression on his face before he follows him out of the dining room.

Most of Ed's anger deflates once he's alone with Lee, but he keeps his guard up. She's strong in other ways, ways he still can't truly fathom. “I don't want to talk about this.”

“Reform isn't always easy,” she says. He looks to her for an explanation, or maybe for some sort of direction. He feels lost now that his burst of anger is gone. “Do you want your network back?”

“I don't like not knowing things,” he says. She nods. “They'll dismantle it all.”

She doesn't deny his theory. Instead she gestures to the chair Ed vacated earlier, and he sits. “Leaving might not be your best option.”

“We don't have many others,” he sighs. “I have to finish the first batch of Victor's coolant before we go. One week, possibly two.”

“You'll honestly feel safer away from the Manor?”

“I'll feel safer once Barbara is six feet under,” he spits, intending to make his ire reach Barbara somehow.

“Won't we all,” Lee says, mirthless. “I'm going to sound very mean when I say this, but do you two think you're going to find a bigger group of people on your side if you leave?”

“We know how to take care of ourselves.”

“Ed this is crazy even for Gotham. A man capable of reanimating the dead, capable of anything really, is working on controlling some of Gotham's current and past supervillains using God knows what method he's come up with.” She takes his hand and makes him relax his fingers. There are nail indents on his palm. “We're all in over our heads, and it'll only get worse if we start splitting apart this group.”

Ed focuses on unclenching his other fist and stares down at the indents there. “Not connected by blood or by bond, but by a common goal.”

“A team,” she says. “And don't let Jim get you too worked up about not sharing, because he has zero room to talk.”

-

“August twentieth, all verification test results have been within Victor's specifications. We are moving forward with the first test of the coolant.” Ed puts on thick gloves and picks up the canister of coolant. “A note, remind Victor that  _ some  _ of us can't hold metal that gets this cold.”

“Can you use a different material?” Nora asks. She's been reserved, maybe disbelieving that Victor will actually be freed from his room, but Ed is confident even if he is incredibly irritated with this procedure.

“Maybe in the second model,” he says. He moves across the lab to the workbench with Victor's cooling apparatus and Nora follows him. “Admittedly I should have realized this would happen, but Victor made no mention in his notes.”

He attaches the coolant to the apparatus and watches as the bluish white liquid flows through the flattened tubing. The small motor near the coolant keeps it circulating evenly, and when Ed tests the temperature using an infrared thermometer it registers minus twenty. “Good.”

“He can use it?” she asks, some excitement and awe finally seeping into her voice.

Ed nods. “He may want to work on some adjust-” she hugs him, and he pats her shoulder with one gloved hand until she releases him. “You’re grateful, I see.” And smiling. It makes his chest feel warm. “No reason to keep him waiting.”

He handles the equipment carefully, still wearing the gloves for extra precaution, and he walks over to the freezer with Nora. Victor is watching for them, hovering near the window and door, and Ed reaches out to open it himself when Victor ducks out of view and the hinges begin groaning in protest as he opens it from the inside.

“I’ll have to get naked,” he says, blunt honesty making Ed hand over the cooling system without a word. He turns away from the door and stares at the ground while Nora laughs behind her hand. He knew he would regret this, but he’d assumed it would be because Victor would feel the need to monopolize Nora’s time once he’s free to roam.

The apparatus is thin, and aside from a few key points Ed can’t see anything underneath Victor’s clothing; the main pack near his hip sticks out a bit and a couple of the flat tubes over the sides of his neck stick out above his shirt. He shuts the door himself and looks around the main area of the cave. “It’s an actual cave.”

“And yet he criticizes  _ us  _ for our style choices.” Victor gives Ed a flat look and Ed clears his throat. “Well, I’m sure you’ll want to show him around,” he tells this to Nora, and he leaves without bothering to wait for a reply, assuming they’re going to get emotional again and wanting no part of it.


	27. Chapter 27

Despite swearing off public events following the GCPD gala Bruce can’t come up with a sufficient excuse to keep him from having to attend the anniversary of his own company.

He doesn’t have anything better to do with his time. A raid in Midtown cleared out one of Barbara’s weapon stashes, and after some heavy reluctance Bruce managed to convince Ed that destroying his once beloved network is something Strange doesn’t expect of them. Now networkless and without some of Barbara’s firepower the city has reached a temporary calm while Strange presumably attempts to build his power behind the scenes. Bruce wishes they could use the lull to push harder, but not knowing where to push next has the Batman grounded to avoid any unnecessary danger.

And now he has to write a speech, something he enjoys in theory but never in practice. He’s just thankful it isn’t a significant milestone year; people always expect higher calibre speeches whenever it’s a five or ten divisible anniversary.

The urge to go up to the roof to write keeps distracting Bruce from making any significant progress for most of the morning, and frequent emails and phone calls about a few of the final touches for the evening don’t do him any favors. He’s one more distraction away from just scrapping any sort of planned speech and improvising, assuming most of the guests will be on their second or third glass of wine by the time he gets up to the podium, and when he sees a familiar face through the glass door separating his office from the hall he closes his document without bothering to save.

“Brenda, go ahead and let Miss St. Cloud in.”

“Yes Mr. Wayne,” she says brightly, and Silver glides into the room, tossing her hair off one shoulder and coming to stand before his desk.

“Hello, Silver.”

“I was beginning to think I wouldn't see you for another few years again,” she teases. She sits in a chair across from Bruce's desk and crosses her legs, bobbing one heel as she smiles at him. “You didn't leave the country again did you?”

“I've just been busy,” destroying old PA and surveillance equipment around the city, but he doesn't say that part out loud. “The company eats up a lot of my social time.”

“Well since I was hired to plan the dinner it's eating up my time too.”

“I recommended you,” he says, and she smiles.

“I had a feeling.” She sits forward and grabs one of the paperweights off of Bruce's desk, the one he got in China from one of their distributors. “You have a lot of pull around here.”

“I do own the company,” he says. He wants to move his chair around to the other side of his desk. Sitting in his office chair feels too formal.

“Gave yourself a pretty nice office,” she comments, standing and setting the weight down as she walks over to the giant window overlooking the city.

“It has a nice view,” he says. Silver turns back to him and arches one eyebrow. “Would you like coffee? There's a small café on a lower floor.”

“I'd love some.”

-

The cafe is always relatively busy, but there's a private room available to upper management, and Bruce uses his key to unlock the door separating it from the main room. Silver carries her mug close to her  face, dark roast no sugar with a splash of half and half, and she takes a sip once she sits down at the small table near the window.

“A nice office  _ and  _ private café seating?”

“I'm a fan of perks,” Bruce says, sitting across from her and taking a drink from his own mug. Silver laughs once and puts her hand over his, and she leans across the table and kisses him. Bruce blinks, and she pulls back a couple inches. “Sil-" She kisses him again, and he hums, but he pulls back. “Silver, wait.”

“We're in a locked room,” she whispers. “I thought that's why you wanted to come here.”

“I'm seeing someone,” he says. Silver sits back and looks at him, confused and searching for something. “I'm sorry if I misled you today.”

“Bruce, we kissed at the GCPD gala.”

His jaw goes slack and he looks down at his mug.  _ Lavender _ . “Oh.”

“I wondered why you didn't call me,” she says. “I'm sorry I kissed you.”

“Don't be. I didn't tell you.” He licks his lips once, then hides the motion behind a drink of his coffee. “My relationship isn't public knowledge. I'd like to keep it that way.”

“Everyone deserves a little privacy,” she says. “No hard feelings, okay? We weren't really thinking clearly that night.”

“I,” he pauses, because telling her he thought he dreamed about kissing her sounds worse, “am actually having a child soon.”

Silver’s eyes widen with surprise and she smiles, bewildered and a bit bemused. “Now that  _ really  _ doesn’t fit into a playboy lifestyle.”

Bruce laughs. “That’s what I thought, but Alfred told me that’s what a babysitter is for.”

“Now I really feel bad,” she sighs, but a quick wink shows Bruce she's exaggerating a bit. “You better start opening conversations with that.”

“That I'm not single?”

“Or the part about having a baby.” She laughs. “You don't even look that scared.”

“I'm terrified,” he laughs too, and it feels nice, friendly. Things have felt strained in the Manor. “But it's a good kind of terrified, I think. A lot of things are going to change.”

_And that's_ _good_ , he tells himself. _Especially once Strange is gone_.

“Do I know this girl you're seeing?”

“Definitely,” he nods. He wants to lie, to keep some things to just himself, but Silver won't tell if he's serious about wanting privacy. She's grown up in the spotlight long enough to want to step out of its revealing glow every once and awhile. “It's Selina.”

“Selina Kyle?” she confirms, and Bruce nods. “Okay, now  _ that  _ I can't picture. Are you getting married?”

“No,” he assures her. “Not now at least. It was kind of a surprise, and I don't want to push her into something she doesn't want.”

But in the future, once things have settled and the Manor is truly safe, and their child is starting to grow and learn,maybe then. He's sure he'll feel when the time is right.

“You look so excited,” she says, happy for him, the awkwardness of earlier is already long gone.

“Do you remember a party we both attended when we were twenty?” he asks.

“Bruce, that was ten years ago.”

“It was the first time you shared your marijuana with me. I think your aunt gave it to you.”

Silver is quiet for a few beats, and then she laughs under her breath, trying and failing to hide it behind her coffee. “You knew exactly what it was, and you still asked me if it was a marijuana cigarette.”

“I wasn't very familiar with the term,” he admits. “During that party we kept laughing about one of the politicians. He had a copy of a sonogram in his wallet he kept taking out to show people.”

“I remember,” she rolls her eyes. “We said something about,” she pauses, one finger touching her cheek as she thinks, “how it was like the snow on an unused TV channel. You can't really see anything.”

“It's come back to haunt me,” he says. He pulls out his wallet and pulls the folded paper out of the photo sleeve. He'd asked Lee to print it at Selina's last exam, privately, because he knew Selina would tease him about it. Bruce handles it gently for a few moments, making sure the creases don't mar the actual image, and he hands it over to Silver. “I don't usually bring it out to share but the concept is the same.”

“Oh wow,” she marvels down at the sonogram and gently traces her finger over the baby's head. “It has your giant head already.”

“Thank you.”

“This is adorable.” She looks up from the sonogram and her smile is so bright. “Bruce, you look so happy.”

“I am,” he says. “It's amazing.”

-

It’s relatively late, although Bruce has a feeling Selina will still be awake. He has a tricky time carrying some of the leftovers up the ladders of the fire escape, but he wants to make amends for not being able to invite her to the dinner for Wayne Enterprises.

And he should tell her about Silver.

A few cats are lounging on the fourth floor fire escape landing, and they start rubbing against Bruce’s legs and howling up at him before he’s even gotten a chance to look inside. The window is open, and Selina calls out to the fire escape. “What’re you doing here?”

“Hello,” he says, stepping in through the window and trying to avoid stepping on any cats. “I brought some food.”

“Yeah, okay,” she says, waving him over. She’s half dressed and her hair is wet. “I’m not going to say no to food.”

“It’s from the anniversary dinner,” he says. Selina accepts the container and walks over to her kitchen. “I would have invited you-”

“Pass.” She dips her pinkie into one of the sauces and licks it. “Not half bad.”

“I would have brought you some of the alcohol too, but, well,” he shrugs, and she nods. She moves to put the food into her fridge and Bruce sighs. “Selina, there’s something we need to talk about.”

“Yeah okay,” she finishes pouring herself a glass of milk. “Want anything?”

“Selina-”

“I’m trying to be nice okay? We can drink and talk.”

Bruce shakes his head, then reconsiders. “You had a bottle of brandy.”

“Still here,” she says, pointing at one of the cabinet doors with her foot. “You’re getting it yourself though.”

“You’re being nice?” he teases. She sticks her tongue out at him. “I can get it, thank you.”

“One of these days I’m going to duct tape a basketball to your stomach and we’ll see how much you want to bend over.” She pours a glass and a few bowls, cats already hopping up onto the counter the second the milk begins pouring into them. By the time Bruce has the brandy out and a glass with about an inch of liquid in it Selina’s stretched out on her couch. A small cat mews up at her from the floor and she grabs it by the scruff of its neck. “This little guy was in the alley.”

Bruce claims a chair and smiles at the kitten; it’s still mewing even as Selina scratches its head, but it settles quickly on her lap. “He seems friendly.”

“ _ She  _ just wants my milk, but that’s fine. Most of them are in it for the food.” She gestures over to the swarm of cats licking up the milk from the bowls. “So you wanted to talk?”

“This morning I learned something,” he starts, pausing to take his first drink of brandy. It burns a little, but in a pleasant, warm burning as it settles in his stomach. “You remember the GCPD gala?”

“I remember it being a great place to swipe wallets,” she says idly.

“Silver was there,” he says. Bruce takes a breath, opting for swift honesty. He can answer any questions as they arise. “And we kissed.”

Selina watches him for a few seconds, studying his face, and then she shrugs. “Okay.”

On the way over, and throughout the day after he learned the truth, Bruce spent part of his time practicing telling Selina the truth and trying to predict what her reaction would be, but it was never this. Her expression doesn’t change, there’s no delayed anger, there’s just Selina lounging on her couch with a few cats and a glass of milk, seemingly indifferent and unaffected.

“I’m sorry.”

Selina groans and sets the milk down on the coffee table. “Why?”

Bruce blinks twice. “I kissed Silver.”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time.”

“I just thought,” he pauses, pressing his palms together, “we’re going to have a child. I assumed that meant we should be monogamous.”

“Did I  _ say  _ that?” she asks rhetorically. Bruce shakes his head anyway, assuming she wants some sort of reaction. “Then why did you think it?”

“Because,” he retreats into his head for a moment to collect his thoughts, “we’re having a baby, and traditionally-”

“Bruce we aren’t traditional. You’re The Batman and I’m Catwoman. Nothing about either of us is  _ ever  _ going to be traditional, okay? And if I didn’t  _ say  _ it, then I don’t  _ expect  _ it. And stop acting like you  _ want  _ me to yell at you. If you do something really stupid I’ll yell.”

“So you aren’t mad,” he verifies.

“No, Bruce, I’m not mad. You can keep kissing her if you want.” There’s a moment where Selina’s eyes harden, but it passes quickly. Bruce still interprets it as a good reason to avoid kissing Silver again. “What made you think I would be mad about this?” She looks left and right, maybe trying to find some physical object to blame. Then she looks down, and nods once to herself. “Oh, right. You keep thinking this thing,” she places a hand on her stomach, “is going to change  _ everything _ .”

“Isn’t it?”

“If it changes literally  _ everything  _ about your life then what was the point up until now? Why do anything before having a kid if having it is the only part of your life that means something?” She takes her milk back and gets up from the couch. “You aren’t going to stop working, right? And you’re still The Batman.”

“There’s a good chance I’ll need to take less risks, considering the danger.”

“But you  _ won’t _ , Bruce.” He gives her a pleading look, and she shrugs. “I’m not saying you should try to get yourself killed all the time, but we both know you’d lose your mind if you stopped completely. Gotham’s like, your family, and I’ve  _ never  _ seen you turn your back on family.”

Bruce sits back and takes a drink of his brandy. A part of him assumed he’d be hanging up his cowl come December, but where does that leave Gotham? And Strange is still out there, even though they managed to cripple his plans in a few small areas, there’s still a vast, unknown part of his plan still in motion. Can they manage to find a lead and follow it in three months?

“You think I should keep fighting crime.”

“I don’t think you should throw away something you’ve done for half your life.”

“I’m not throwing it away if the city stops needing me.”

Selina looks at him, pitying him, maybe pitying his optimism. “I don’t think that’s going to happen anytime soon.”

“Maybe,” he sighs. Tonight hasn’t really gone the way he’d hoped, which feels strange. Shouldn’t he feel relieved? He’d expected to be thrown out of Selina’s apartment, maybe some yelling, definitely hurt feelings, but instead they’re sharing a relatively comfortable silence while he finishes his glass of brandy and Selina paces around the room. “I didn’t mean to assume.”

She arches one eyebrow. “Yeah? You do it a lot.”

Bruce sets his empty glass on the coffee table and runs his hands through his hair. There’s product left in it from the anniversary dinner, slightly mussed because of the strong winds outside, and he wipes the product on his dress pants. They’ll need dry cleaned after being with the cats anyway. “What’s happening to us Selina? Sometimes it feels like we aren’t even friends anymore.”

“People change.” He bites his lip, but he has to agree with her. She shrugs. “We made a game out of breaking all of Ed’s old network stuff. Which I won, by the way, because you cheated.”

It’s the most fun he’s had with Selina in months. “That’s true. And I didn’t cheat, I just have long range equipment.”

“Yeah, sure,” she sticks her tongue out again, and some of the confusion about her reaction to Silver slides away for now. “What do you want to do about it?”

“About us,” he confirms, which feels like a good start already. She nods to him as she walks over to her kitchen. “I’d like to stay here tonight, if that’s okay.”

-

He wakes with a sharp inhale, and Bruce lifts his head. It’s still dark out, and across the room he hears the soft click of a safety being switched off, then the familiar chick-clack of a pistol. Selina is standing across the room, illuminated only by the moonlight and a distant street lamp outside. She looks over, holding her pistol in her right hand; her left moves down to settle on her stomach.

“Selina?”

She holds up a finger to her mouth and gestures outside with a nod of her head. Bruce slips out of the bed and walks carefully across the room to the other window overlooking the street outside. There’s a single vehicle, black with tinted windows, and if he looks carefully Bruce can see someone moving inside the car.

“Who is it?” he whispers.

“Dunno,” she says, slowly easing her window open and backing up so she isn’t fully visible from the road. “But one of them got out a while ago.”

Behind them Bruce can hear the sound of rubble being moved out in the hall, and he abandons the window in favor of moving across the room and slipping into the armoire Selina uses to cover the door to the hall. He listens carefully, keeping his breathing shallow and even, and the second he hears scraping feet outside Selina’s door he throws it open and knocks the intruder to the ground, gun clattering away as Bruce uses surprise to restrain him in a sleeper hold.

It’s always agonizing, the waiting, but eventually the gunman stops struggling as he falls into unconsciousness. Bruce searches his person for any other weapons and notable items and comes up with a pair of thick zip ties, which he uses to secure his arms behind his back and his ankles together.

“Think of this as a citizen’s arrest,” he says quietly. “I’d read you your rights but I’m not in uniform.” He isn’t even wearing any shoes, just the tee shirt and a pair of basketball shorts he pulled on for bed. “If you’re patient Commissioner Gordon will Mirandize you properly.”

He grabs the gun from the ground, and after a second, more thorough check of his pockets he finds half a box of ammo and an old flip phone, which he breaks in half at the hinge. Bruce slips back inside Selina’s apartment and watches for anyone lurking in the shadows, but Selina’s the only one there, still standing by the window with her pistol at the ready. When he reaches her he offers her the second gun and ammo, which she takes and slips into a pocket of her loose cardigan.

“How many?” she whispers.

“Just the one. I assume he was supposed to signal the rest,” he says. Bruce moves back over to his clothes, which are still in a pile near the bed, and digs out his communicator and taps it twice. It takes awhile, but eventually a groggy, half awake greeting fills his left ear. “Jim, I’m sorry it’s late.”

“‘S three,” he mumbles.

“We have a slight emergency,” he says quickly. Bruce moves back to the armoire and checks on the guy out in the hall, who’s still unconscious and secure. “It’s Selina. Some armed men are outside, and another attempted to break in.”

“Christ okay,” Jim mumbles as he starts to wake up fully. “How many?”

“We don’t know yet,” he says. He closes Selina’s door and the armoire as he steps back inside. “Selina’s watching the car, and I apprehended the individual attempting to break in. From what I’ve seen the rest of the entry points are secure.”

“Alright, keep me updated,” Jim says, and the line clicks.

Bruce moves back over to Selina, who’s currently taking aim at the car’s occupants. “Have any more gotten out?”

“Nope,” she says, and the car’s engine roars to life. Selina sends a single shot down at it, puncturing one of the front tires before Bruce can even hear them shift into gear. “And now they aren’t going anywhere.”

“I’m not sure that’s the best plan,” he mutters, but it’s too late to do anything now. Three more men get out and split into three directions, one crossing the street to the far alley and the other two appearing to move to either side of Selina’s building. “Do you still have the stash I left here?”

“Under the bathroom sink,” she says, and Bruce rushes over to her small bathroom and drags a plastic tub out from the cabinet. Inside he has a pair of tennis shoes, brand new but the tags are all removed, and a bulletproof vest, along with a few of his staple gadgets. He pockets a few smoke bombs and batarangs in the front pockets of the vest and pulls the shoes on without bothering to untie them.

“I’m going outside,” he tells her, and she watches him pointedly for a moment before returning her attention to the window. “I’ll be careful.”

“I didn’t say anything,” she says, and she takes aim at someone currently climbing the fire escape in the alley across the street, mistakenly assuming that the moon isn’t bright enough to illuminate him as he climbs. “Jim’s going to get pissy if I shoot to kill right?”

“It’s a safe guess,” Bruce says. He opens the North window and sticks his head out slowly, listening to the sounds of one of the gunman’s feet as he scrabbles along the dark space. A quick toss of a smoke bomb into the alley and he smirks when he hears coughing. “Shoot to wound.”

“Can do,” she says, and she fires off a single shot across the way, swearing. “Bastard moved.”

“They do that,” he nearly laughs. “I’ll deal with these two.”

“Not unless I get to them first,” she says, and Selina laughs to herself when she fires another shot and Bruce can hear the shout all the way to her apartment. “Two down.”

“Two to go,” he finishes for her, and he climbs out the window and drops down a flight onto the next ledge, grabbing it tight and ignoring the way the brick and mortar digs into his hands. He drops a second smoke bomb and listens for the coughing, and when he gets a better idea for the intruder’s location he drops down to the second story windows, swearing when it scrapes along already damaged skin. “Should have included a pair of gloves,” he says, and when the gunman shouts he drops down onto him, slamming his full weight on top of the man and grappling with his arms, tossing the gun aside before he can take a shot.

“Who sent you?” he growls. The man either doesn’t hear or pretends not to, because he keeps struggling blindly with Bruce, fighting with all his might, and then he goes still, and Bruce scrambles off him.

No apparent injuries, no bleeding or irregular angles of any bones, but he’s not breathing, and Bruce can’t find a pulse. He taps twice for Jim and begins chest compressions. “Jim we need an ambulance.” He hears another shot in the distance and a triumphant cry from Selina. “Make that two.”

-

“There’s nothing in the preliminary exam that suggests you did anything to cause his death,” Jim says quietly, one hand on Bruce’s arm and the other pointing to the ME report. “Lee says his heart stopped, just like that. No reason, no apparent cause.”

“Overexertion,” Bruce offers, feeling a bit numb. “We were grappling, and I couldn’t let him get to his gun.”

“You did the right thing,” he says firmly, clapping Bruce on the back. “There’s no way you could have known this could happen.”

He could have used any number of tactics that were less taxing, but he lets Jim think he agrees with him. “Unless you have any other explanations as to why this happened I think I’d rather leave.”

“I don’t have anything more for you. We’ll question the three others about the attack. Maybe they’ll know something about him.” He closes up the folder and squeezes Bruce’s shoulder. “Go home, Bruce. Selina’s up in my office.”

“Is she under arrest?”

“Not even close.” Jim glances past the window of the captain’s office into the main room of the GCPD. “Between you and me, she’s not the listed victim in the report. Jane Doe.”

“Thank you,” he whispers. “And me?”

“You’re here to answer questions about an incident that happened at the Wayne Enterprises anniversary dinner. Low priority stuff, but you insisted on running in right away to clear things up.”

Bruce stands and shakes Jim’s hand to further the claim that he’s just here to cooperate. “I think I should go upstairs, unless you have anything else.”

Jim shakes his head. “Get on out of here. I know how to reach you.”

Upstairs in the Commissioner’s office Bruce finds Selina lying on Jim’s couch, fast asleep with her back facing the room. It feels unsafe to be so exposed, but Bruce only gets one step into the room before Selina is already rolling up to a seated position and glaring at him, then settling into a neutral expression. “You look like hell.”

“He didn’t make it,” Bruce says, sitting on the end of the couch by Selina’s feet. “Has this ever happened before? The attack, I mean.”

“Yeah like, every other week.” He looks at her with shock. “Bruce are you kidding me? Why would I keep something like this from you? Obviously this hasn’t happened before.”

“I’m worried this was because of Strange,” he says. “You helped me destroy the network, and after losing Fries and Zsasz he might’ve decided to let Barbara act.”

“Well if that’s the best she has it should be easy to beat her.”

“We don’t know where her current hideout is.” Bruce rubs his eyes. “It’s probable that Strange is helping her hide.”

“So, what? We wait until Jim finds her?”

Bruce leans against the back of the couch and holds his elbows. “I’m honestly not sure.” He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths. Selina’s toe prods him in the thigh and he looks over at her. “Would you go to Norway with me?”

“What?”

“Just for a week, to let Jim complete his investigation.” And because he still feels a sick cold thinking about last night. He reaches out a hand and interlocks his fingers with Selina’s. “What do you think?”

-

“So are we going to any museums?” Selina asks, tipping her sunglasses down to look over at Bruce from the passenger seat of the rental car.

“That depends, are you going to steal anything?” It’s a joke, but also not, and Selina blinks innocently at him. “Selina we’re here to be safe, not cause more trouble.”

“Okay, one,  _ you’re  _ here to be safe. I just want some baklava.” She blows a bubble with her gum and lets it pop over her face before pulling it back into her mouth. “And  _ maybe  _ I’ll see what I can get my hands on.”

“Selina,” he warns her.

“I thought you wanted to have a little  _ fun  _ together.” She tosses her hair to one side and leans back in the passenger seat. “What if I brought it back right away?”

“Why not try something legal first?” Bruce slows down the car as they reach the dirt road leading to the cottage. “There’s always hiking.”

“Big pass.” She sighs loudly. “I’m already bored. What did you do for three months again?”

“Recovered from my injuries and rested. Occasionally I went outside to the lake.”

“There we go,” she claps. “We’ll go swimming.”

Bruce tilts his head, nodding thoughtfully as he kills the engine and opens his door. “That isn’t a bad idea, although I don’t have a suit.”

“Don’t you own this lake?” He nods. “Then you don’t  _ need  _ a suit.”

“Fair enough.” He shrugs one shoulder and grabs their luggage from the trunk of the car. “If you’re hungry there should be some non-perishables in the cabinets.”

-

For the first couple days things are simple, and rather pleasant. They swim in the lake and eat food in the nearby town. (Selina eats both her and Bruce’s portion of baklava at the restaurant, acting very put out that Bruce didn’t give her any sooner.) Jim doesn’t call about any new developments, and Bruce is able to sleep without any bad memories tainting his dreams.

“Do you always turn into a hermit when you go places or just here?”

“I like the isolation,” he tells Selina from his place on the floor near the couch. He’s reading through a few news articles on his tablet. “Sometimes a physical removal from most of society helps me regain focus.”

Selina slips the tablet out of his hands and he watches her power it off. “I don’t think reading about Gotham will help.”

“It was world news, actually,” Bruce says, although she might have a point. Bruce moves so he’s kneeling next to the couch and leans on the cushion Selina’s sitting on. “What should we do instead?”

“You look like you have some ideas.” She gives him a quick scan as he leans in, eyes half lidded when he leans in and kisses her. It’s a quick peck, and she’s leaning back before he can press forward. “You don’t want to go anywhere at all?”

He doesn’t, not really, not when the cottage feels homey and safe. It’s honestly what drew him here over some of the townhomes in the nearest town. By the time anyone bothers to come all the way out here he’s been able to see them kicking up dust on the road or making noise on the stone drive.

Selina gets up off the couch before he can swoop in again, and she drops his tablet off on a small table before moving to the kitchen. “Do you feel okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, just hungry,” she says lightly. “Want something?”

He wants to ask if she’s really not mad about Silver, but his phone begins ringing and he leaves the room to answer. Instead of Jim like he expected it’s an unfamiliar number, and Bruce hesitates a moment before accepting the call. “Hello?”

“Are you playing hooky again already?”

“Silver,” he breathes out a laugh. “I guess you could say that.”

“I came by with the lost and found from the dinner and I was going to stop in and say hi.”

Bruce leans against a wall and hums. “Well, I suppose you can still say hello, but I won’t be back until the end of the week.”

“Do you ever work?” she teases him. “I wish I could get away with taking vacations all the time.”

“Sometimes I’m gone for work too.”

“Uh huh, and is this for work?” Bruce huffs out a laugh. “And I’m supposed to believe you actually do anything?”

“I came here with Selina,” he says quietly. “We needed some time to ourselves.”

Silver hums knowingly. “Then don’t let me keep you away too long,” she says. “Have fun. I’ll see you when you’re back.”

“Bye Silver,” he says, and she hangs up. He contemplates their options, and taps his phone against his palm a few times before walking away from the bedroom and back to the kitchen, where he finds Selina eating some strawberries with yogurt. “You wanted to see a museum?”

-

Bruce folds each piece of his clothing carefully so it will fit back inside his suitcase. He works by the light of the crescent moon, trying to finish quickly so he can leave as fast as possible.

“What are you doing?”

Bruce pauses mid fold and sets down his shirt with a heavy sigh. “I thought you were still sleeping.”

“It’s like, three in the morning.” Selina walks over and plucks the tee shirt out of Bruce’s hands. “Leaving without me?”

“I’ve done some thinking,” he says. “And I’ve concluded that I think you’ll be safer here.”

Selina blinks a few times and boggles at him. “Here, as in right here in this cottage,  _ all  _ the way in Norway?”

“Strange doesn’t know about this place,” he says, “or he would have tried to strike when I was still recovering. You’ll be safe here.”

“Did you have another nightmare?”

_ There’s hissing and crackling as a hundred different PA systems all come to life, filling the rooms with static no matter where he turns. _

“Nothing that unusual.” He takes the shirt back, feeling the soft cotton and starting to fold again. “I know you’ve done plenty to defend yourself, but Barbara must have sent those men after you. She’s not afraid to hurt you, and you’re expecting. I’ll feel better knowing you’re both safe.”

“No.”

Bruce feels his eyes beginning to haze over and burn. He shoves the shirt into his bag without bothering to finish folding it. “I’m not giving you an option.”

“Yeah, and you’re acting  _ crazy _ ,” she says. “Do you really think this place is that much safer? We’re in the middle of  _ nowhere _ , Bruce. Who the hell am I supposed to call if something happens? What if the  _ baby  _ starts coming early? Did you think of  _ anything _ except for Strange?”

“He wants to hurt me, and he knows he can do that if he hurts you,” he says, voice feeling and sounding thick, and he blinks hard. We can relocate a private doctor nearby-”

“Bruce I’m not staying here,” she says. “It’s cool and all, but I’m already bored and it’s been a  _ week _ . You won’t let me steal anything even for fun.” She touches Bruce’s back, and he focuses on the feel of her hand running over his shaking muscles. “Man you’re really freaking out right now.”

“I’m fine,” he says, although he sniffs wetly, which doesn’t sound very convincing to him and he can’t imagine it helped his case.

“God, you really aren’t,” she says. “Look, I’m not staying here,” she gently pats him on the back of the head when he turns to her to argue, “but I’ll compromise with you okay? I’ll start staying at the Manor.”

Bruce presses his lips together. “You said I stressed you out.”

“Yeah well, maybe I got over it.” She pulls him away from his bag and makes him sit down on the bed. “It freaked me out too, okay? Not a lot of people know about my place.”

“You never act freaked out.”

“Not on the outside.” She pushes Bruce over with one hand and makes him lie back down.

“So I don’t stress you out?”

“I don’t think it was ever  _ just  _ you,” she says. She lies down beside him and tugs the sheet back over them. “But you are kind of a shithead sometimes. Like when you wake me up in the middle of the night with your loud folding.”

Bruce reaches out a hand towards Selina and gently tugs at one of her curls. If he manages to respond to her teasing before falling back asleep he doesn’t remember, too focused on watching the gentle snap back of Selina’s hair every time he tugs at the lock.


	28. Chapter 28

“September first, I'm officially handing over production of the coolant to Victor. We are in agreement,” he feels his lip twitch when he says this but it's true enough, “about which of the three terminating methods is most efficient, and he is now able to leave the freezer for extended periods of time. Any and all changes are now his to make.”

Ed clicks off his recorder and pockets it before he grabs the notebooks he used for the coolant and dumps them onto the chair by the other lab station. He's thankful to be washing his hands of this project. Let Victor slave over his own coolant for days at a time. Ed's more interested in working on some of his personal projects, and he's been successful in at least setting up an automated dispenser for the reagents for Nora's medication.

He actually finds himself at a loss for a few moments, all of the hustle to complete the coolant has faded into memory, and Nora's not going to need him to make more medication for  _ months  _ with the backup supply he's managed to generate. But he's gotten very good at entertaining himself during rare idle times, and he sets up a cozy little place in one of the second floor rooms that has a large bay window overlooking the back grounds. He has his tablet with a backlog of crosswords and some tea, and he's just barely begun steeping the tea bag when Oswald comes bursting into the room with a grim expression on his face. “Something's very wrong, Ed.”

“Were you planning on using the last lemon lift?” Ed asks.

“This is far more dire than the last bag of  _ tea _ ,” he says. He comes to stand in front of Ed and holds out a hand. When Ed hesitates Oswald reaches down and takes Ed's tablet from his lap, swiping his fingers a few times before he turns it around and shows Ed a newspaper article that fills him with icy cold dread.

“That's-”

“Yes, Ed.” He turns the tablet back around and sighs sadly. “I was rather fond of that house.”

-

They shouldn't go, Ed knows this the second they crawl into the backseat of the car, but he  _ has  _ to see their home to truly believe it, otherwise it's going to remain this nebulous fact, something too wild to believe when he hasn't seen the wreckage in person.

“I would've called sooner, but you weren't listed as the owners,” Jim talks quietly as he drives them there. “One of your neighbors called it in, said the owners aren't around a lot.”

“It's been several months,” Ed mutters. He glances to Oswald and tries to make sense of the blank calm he finds, but it just leaves him feeling anxious and unsure. “Was anything recovered?”

“It's at the GCPD in my office,” Jim answers. “Fire marshal cleared us to walk the first floor, but the stairs collapsed so upstairs is off limits to us. If they find anything else I'll bring it to you.”

Ed mourns the loss of his library upstairs. He'd clung to a blind hope that it was electrical, accidental, but as Jim pulls onto the street he sees the ruined facade, the tumbled bricks from overheated mortar and burnt wood. He picks up phantom smells of smoke and ash before they even open the door of the car. Beside him, Oswald is trembling, and it isn't until he growls that Ed recognizes the absolute fury in his posture.

“Os,” he reaches out but Oswald already has the car door open and launches himself towards their home. Ed reaches him just as he lets out a loud cry of anger, and he and Jim do their best to usher him through the ruined front door and inside their charred home. Better to have a fit out of the line of sight of their neighbors. Ex neighbors.

“I'll kill her,” he says, right back to being eerily calm. “She thinks this will  _ scare  _ me into letting her have what she wants?” he cries out into the barebones skeletal structure of the main entryway, volume rising as Ed scurries out of the room.

He wanders down the hall towards their bedroom. It's less charred here, but still very damaged and smoky. He coughs lightly from residual smoke and ash as he wanders through the room, noting the ruined clothes in their walk in closet and a pair of Oswald’s shoes, the rubber bottoms melted to the hardwood and smelling rather foul.

He doesn't want to look up even when he can see patches of light on the floor, obviously caused by holes in the ceiling. If he does look he'll be faced with the reality that his books are gone, or at least the ones he didn't move to the Manor with him. He's worried he lost some of his first editions, and the novels he deemed unnecessary when time was scarce are the ones he now wants the most.

“Where did it start first?” Ed asks Jim once he moves back into the main room. Oswald is still fuming, although he's apparently switched from bold declarations in favor of throwing what remains of their dishes onto the floor, each one hitting the linoleum with a satisfying crack.

“Started upstairs. There's no official report yet but it  _ looks  _ like Firefly's work. It's definitely not an accident.” Jim side-eyes Oswald with obvious concern. “Look I know he’s  _ pissed  _ but you don’t think we should stop this?”

“Plates are replaceable,” Ed says, not even flinching when the next plate smashes against the floor.

“Yeah, that wasn’t really my point,” Jim murmurs. “Oswald, hey, we’re not going to solve anything standing around here.”

“I sincerely doubt the GCPD will solve  _ anything  _ at the rate they’re going,” he sneers. Oswald moves on from the plates and tears open the cabinet that holds their glasses, and he pulls out a tumbler and sends it flying across the kitchen, and it impacts the wall with a loud crack. Jim’s glare is murderous, but Oswald isn’t focused on him anymore. He’s holding onto one of their wine glasses, fingers gently following the etched pattern on the bowl.

“Dinner at the rooftop restaurant,” Ed says.

“Four years ago,” he says back, and when he peeks over at Ed for a moment Ed nods in agreement. He grabs the other half of the pair and sets them both on the counter. “James, tell your team that these are to be recovered regardless of usability.”

Jim sighs. “We can take them now,” he says. “We really shouldn't stay any longer.”

Oswald cradles the glasses gently, and he doesn't put them down even when they're getting into Jim's car. Ed watches out the window, one hand reaching over to hold onto Oswald’s as he takes one last good look at their ruined home.

He thinks he sees a shadow move across one of the upstairs windows, but when he looks harder there's nothing there but burned wood and ash.

-

“You're concentrated on the GCPD building?” Ed whispers his question into his phone, glancing over his shoulder at Oswald and Jim, while they wait for him to “tie his shoe”.

Ivy groans. “Give them a few minutes, okay? Plants can't exactly fly. Stall if you're that worried about Bridget.”

“Text me if you sense anything,” he tell Ivy, then he snaps his phone shut and finishes with his shoe. There's no way they didn't see his phone or hear him whispering, but neither of the men by the back door comment.

There's something very jarring about entering the GCPD when they're not under arrest, not even wanted men, and he sidesteps a bit closer to Oswald while they wait for Jim to unlock one of the small private rooms normally used for some of the more friendly interviews. They're both getting a lot of looks, especially Oswald, but even outside his old Riddler regalia Ed's face is rather notorious here. If memory serves there's still a photo of him somewhere from his forensic days, although he has no doubt it's been defaced.

“Either of you want some coffee?” Jim asks, on some sort of old officer autopilot. Neither of them respond. “Fine, more for me.”

He leaves them in the interview room with the door slightly ajar, something that feels very deliberate. A few officers keep glaring over at them, and Ed desperately wants to suggest they move upstairs to Jim's office. But any glaring they get is sent back via Oswald, who is in no mood to take any sort of flack on a good day, and eventually the glares die down to confused staring. Ed loops his pinkie finger with Oswald's once they're both comfortably seated at the long wooden table.

“They’re furious,” Ed says.

“They're furious because you're solving all of their cold cases,” Oswald says back, flashing a condescending grin towards the officers instead of his trademark glare. “Can you  _ imagine  _ how humiliating that must be?” He sounds proud of the fact, and Ed's chest swells up a bit with some well deserved pride. “And you're doing it out of the kindness of your heart.”

“They're puzzles,” he says back, but Oswald shushes him.

“Nevermind the motivation, the end result is still justice for justice's sake.” He stops whispering to Ed and sits up when Jim appears with a small dolly with boxes and a black metal safe, the sight of which fills Ed with twin senses of calm and dread.

“Start with the safe,” he snaps when Jim tries to give them one of the cardboard boxes.

Jim rolls his eyes and mutters something about “priorities” and “could have said so  _ before  _ I packed the cart” but he does as Ed says and lifts the heavy safe onto the edge of the table. Ed scoots his chair closer and lets go of Oswald, mouthing out, “third prime, eighth prime, eight times the first,” and opening it slowly, terrified he'll be met with a pile of ash.

Everything inside is pristine, there isn't even a hint of smoke. Ed carefully pulls out the top stack and hands it to Oswald to sift through. “Deeds and accounts,” he says, and he pulls out a thick leather bound album.

“You know those are replaceable,” Jim says, watching from Ed's right.

“These aren't,” he says softly, and he flips open the album. He flips through them slowly, noting photos from five years ago, ten years, it's all still there and intact.

Jim sighs tiredly and pulls up a chair to sit beside Ed. “Never thought of you two as sentimentalists.”

Oswald barks out a single laugh, “you're being serious? Really?”

Ed isn't in the mood to laugh but he can understand how Oswald finds the notion so humorous. He searches the right side of Oswald’s face until he finds the incredibly tiny scar by his right eye, and he smiles, just for a moment, and then he's nose deep in the album again.

His breast pocket buzzes and he snatches his phone out of his pocket, reading the truncated message “roof” right before the display goes black. Ed stands abruptly and moves to the door. “If you'll both give me just five minutes,” he says, holding out his hands in a “wait here” sort of way, “I'll be right back.”

They both call after him but Ed's speeding across the main hall towards the elevators, which are closing, but he jams the end of his cane in between the doors and it pops back open. He hits the roof button and the fourth floor, and as the door closes, with the aid of him mashing the button to do so, he begins taking a quick inventory of his pockets.

Dart kit, extra darts, EMP, and he grins when he finds he's brought along his taser. He pulls it out and tests the button once, and it sparks and buzzes for a second. “Never hurts to leave the house prepared,” he says to himself. There's a polite, soft cough from behind him, and Ed turns to see an aged woman with a cart of files standing in the back of the elevator. “Oh.” He turns back to the buttons and hits the third floor. “I'd get off here if I were you.”

She bustles past Ed as quickly as she's able, giving him one last look before she drags the nearest officer over and starts gesticulating back at the elevator, but Ed mashes the button again and the doors close before the officer can come at him.

“Oh crud,” he mutters, but he needs to reach the roof, so he bolts out of the elevator on the fourth floor and rushes over to the nearest window. It opens easily enough, and he pushes himself out onto the fire escape, tucking his cane under one arm and beginning the single story climb up to the roof.

He pauses just before his head clears the guard wall around the roof and listens for the sound of footsteps. It’s difficult to hear anything over his own breathing, but he holds his breath, counts to three, and hears the scrape of heavy boots somewhere near the center of the roof. Ed hooks the end of his cane over one of the ladder rungs and pulls out his dart kit, loading one into the small tube and holding it near his mouth as he slowly pushes himself up to the next rung so he can see over the edge.

A window opens below him, and someone shouts up at him, something about drop your weapons or some other nonsense, but it also causes Bridget to turn towards him, and he mutters a quick apology before sending a dart flying at her in one of the only vulnerable places on her body, right into her left cheek.

“Yes!” he shouts, and he retrieves his cane before climbing up the rest of the way, still blocking out the nonsense happening below him in favor of catching his breath as he tentatively moves closer, being sure to watch for signs that the dose wasn’t enough to knock her out. “Terribly sorry, I was in a bit of a rush. This was quite the  _ blow _ to your ego.”

He’s still smirking when the roof access door bursts open and a couple officers pour out onto the roof, only to pause when Ed waves to them and gestures down at Bridget. “Be sure to let Commissioner Gordon know Firefly’s been apprehended,” he says, feeling smug, and he starts trying to make his way to the door when an officer grabs his arm and wrenches it behind his back, and slams him against the wall.

“Ed Nygma, you're under-”

“I think there’s been a series of misunderstandings,” he speaks rapidly and loudly, and his breath quickens, but he wills himself to cooperate despite the numerous sleep darts currently in his po- in the hands of one of the officers. Perfect. “Those aren’t illegal. Self defense is-”

“Ed you can’t just- shit,” Jim sighs as he joins the group of officers on the roof. “Let him go.”

“He threatened Martha from records in the elevator,” the officer holding his arm  _ lies  _ to Jim, and Ed starts counting backwards in his head to keep from attempting to throw the officer off.

“Yeah? Well good thing there are cameras,” he mutters. “Look, I’m a little more worried about the potential fire he helped us avoid, so let him go.” Jim actually pulls the officer off Ed and lets him straighten. Ed doesn’t turn away from the wall, opting to rest his palms against the brick of the roof access stairwell and slowing his breathing. “Bring Firefly downstairs to holding.”

They’re left alone on the roof, and Ed slowly turns away from the brick to glare at Jim. “Your officers need to reexamine their priorities.”

“How did you know she was up here?” he asks. There’s the barest hint of worry, and Ed shoves his hands into his pockets, lamenting the loss of his tools, which is practically  _ theft _ , but also needing to remind himself that Jim isn’t the enemy here.

“Ivy’s learned to focus her plants to a specific area,” he describes, hands coming back out so he can draw a circle with his hand, “and we’ve given her a phone. It’s a bit inelegant, but sufficient.” He tries to bend down to retrieve his cane but his knee locks up, and he hisses in pain. “Get that.”

Jim leans over and picks up the cane, handing it over and moving to hold the door open for Ed. “You aren’t under arrest, by the way.”

“The elevator was supposed to be empty,” Ed mutters, taking the stairs slowly and using both his cane and the guard rail to keep himself upright. “They took my equipment.”

“You’ll need to be specific.”

“Darts,  _ sleep  _ darts,” he clarifies, “an EMP, single use, and my taser.” Jim turns around at the bottom of the stairwell and gives Ed a curious look. “It’s low power, but sufficient.”

He doesn’t ask for clarification. Jim ushers Ed back into the interview room with Oswald, who's drumming his fingers on the table anxiously until Ed steps through the doorway. “I'll be right back, just need to watch the tape. Don't go anywhere.”

“Of course,” Ed smiles. “It's not like I have something to hide.”

Oswald waits until Jim's left them alone before he practically erupts out of his chair “What happened!?” he snaps, rushing over to Ed, patting down his chest a bit and making him turn his face. He hums unhappily when he sees Ed's left cheek, and a stinging pain makes itself known. Brick isn't very good for the complexion. “If they manhandled you I'll gut every last one of them.”

“Not now,” he whispers, very aware of the stares they're both getting. “They attempted to arrest me. Bridget was on the roof, and I apprehended her, no thanks to them,” he glares to his right, not willing to turn away from Oswald but more than a little peeved. “Seems my actions were misinterpreted.”

“Well it's clearly jealousy,” Oswald says loudly. “Seeing as one of the top detectives in Gotham is a freelancer with a penchant for  _ riddles. _ ”

Ed turns to the main room and smirks at the officers. “They wouldn't have even noticed Bridget Pike before the entire building went up in flames,” he says just as loudly. A few of the officers are leaving the room in a huff, and it bolsters Ed's ego. They wouldn't leave if he was  _ wrong. _ “No thanks is necessary.”

“No one's going to thank a  _ freak _ for getting lucky.”

Ed sees red, and he snaps his vision from one officer to the next, trying to determine exactly who it was that spoke. He stalks out into the main room of the GCPD, voice climbing with each step. “Better a  _ freak _ ,” he growls, “then a bumbling incompetent excuse for an officer!” There's a certain point where Ed knows he's crossed several lines, but he doesn't  _ care _ . “Between myself and the Batman I can't imagine any of you solve any  _ real cases _ . You're nowhere but everywhere, except where something is!”

They're silent, but there's a palpable level of danger in the room.  All eyes are on him, and they're  _ angry. _ Physically he can't take any of them, but the urge to provoke, lambaste, and belittle the people he's supposed to apparently reply on for safety feels so damn  _ good _ , and Oswald is right there with him, one hand on Ed's arm, seething just as angrily. He's obviously thinking the same thing, has been for  _ weeks  _ now. It was about time one of them said it to their faces.

There's a tiny voice in the back of his head shrieking about guns and false imprisonment and Arkham, but he sees Jim barreling down the stairs, his angry and disappointed face directed at the whole room. “Enough!” he shouts. Ed flinches in Oswald's hold, testing how firm it is, and when the hand on his arm tightens something in him is soothed. “You two,” he says as he approaches Ed and Oswald, “go upstairs. My office.”

“We aren't  _ children _ ,” Oswald glowers back at him, and Ed sidles just a hair closer to Oswald.

“No, but you  _ did  _ successfully piss off an entire room of police officers.” He glances over one shoulder at the group of officers, which seem to be moving as one giant mass, inching closer with hands near their firearms, and a few possibly reaching for handcuffs. “I'll bring up your things, and we'll talk there. Deal?”

He smiles, but it’s pained and tense. Ed watches as Oswald looks everywhere but Jim's face, and then he nods once, curt, and he starts moving along towards the elevator and dragging Ed with him.

They're both silent until the doors are fully shut, then Oswald is on Ed in an instant, gently touching his face and shushing him. “You're shaking.”

“I'm furious,” he whispers, but his voice sounds so small now, not at all what he imagined moments before he spoke. “If they damage anything-”

“I trust Jim to know just how angry I would be if he let something happen,” Oswald says, already drumming his thumb against Ed's palm, the other hand holding his waist. “Just how long do you think it takes one Commissioner to calm down an entire room of officers?”

“Depends on how receptive,” he trails off, watching Oswald’s hand as it trails up Ed's side and over his chest, rubbing a bit over his sternum and fiddling with the buttons there. “There's a camera in the elevator.”

“And in his office?”

“None that I've seen,” he says quietly, unsure if the camera in the elevator picks up sound. “What brought this on?”

“I just had the honor of watching the man I love  _ berate  _ an entire room of officers for being incompetent.” He undoes a single button of Ed's shirt and hums appreciatively. “You're right, you know. It's been  _ months  _ and the only progress being made wasn't due to their efforts.”

“Earlier I was able to apprehend Bridget on the roof. It's why I left so abruptly.”

“You mentioned that, I remember. I did wonder what had you running off so gallantly.” He lets go of Ed's hand and starts moving his fingers up Ed's arm. “I wish I could have seen,” he says. “Tell me.”

“I used a blow dart. It was over almost as quickly as it began.”

“Seconds,” he says, “and not  _ weeks _ .”

“Seconds,” Ed repeats. The elevator dings softly. “Fourth floor.”

They separate momentarily while the doors open, but are back side by side almost immediately when the hallway beyond is empty. Oswald places his hand on Ed's lower back, not pushing, just  _ present _ , and Ed wants to dig in his heels just to feel the pressure increase. But he's also impatient enough to keep moving down the hall to Jim's office, and he holds open the door for Oswald.

He shuts the door and contemplates locking it, but a snap of a flip phone behind him makes him turn away from the lock. “James needs to do a bit more damage control than he imagined. He might be awhile.”

“Pity,” Ed smirks. Then he blinks, and his expression falls. “Oswald, she burned down our house.”

He huffs out a loud sigh. “I don't want to think about that right now, Ed.”

“Oswald-”

“Let me cling to the few positive things that I've gotten today,” he says angrily, then his expression softens. “She’ll learn just how  _ costly  _ her mistake was in time. For now, why don't we take advantage of the good Commissioner's common courtesy?”

-

Ed wakes to the sound of a bewildered, frustrated sound from one Jim Gordon, and he cracks one eye open, blinking up at his blurry face from his place on Oswald’s lap. “Really?”

“It's not like you found us  _ naked _ ,” Oswald says. And he's not wrong. The only thing on the floor is Ed's shirt, but he's still wearing a tank top. Everything else is relatively in place. By the time Jim is sitting at his desk Ed's put his glasses back on, but he doesn't feel any urge to sit up properly.

“Could you both do me a favor and  _ try  _ to make nice downstairs when you leave?” Jim asks, although he doesn't look very hopeful. Probably wise.

“That depends, are any of your officers going to try to arrest us?”

“No,” Jim sighs, “not when Ed stopped Bridget Pike from burning the building down.” He rubs his face with his hands. “God I hate this job some days.”

“There's always room in the private sector for your expertise,” Ed offers. Jim actually looks like he's considering the option.

“I'll keep it in mind.” He gestures with his hand, and Ed turns to look towards the door and their boxes of belongings. “Everything’s there. If the selvage team finds anything else I'll bring it over.” He pauses. “I think we need to have a talk.”

“We already know we should use protection,” Oswald quips. Ed snickers when Jim groans.

“You both know I'm talking about Barbara so just stop,” he doesn't quite yell, but there's an edge to his voice Ed isn't fond of. “I think we all agree that she played a part in this, so be honest with me, what the hell did you do?”

“You already know she's working with Strange,” Ed says, voice cowed, quiet, but Jim hears him loud and clear. “He must have wanted it, or allowed it. One of those.”

“So he's moving forward with his plans. Great.” Jim groans. “We really need to get Bruce back here.”

“You might want to put him under some sort of house arrest while you're at it,” Oswald says, only half invested in his suggestion, the other half seems to be focused on playing with Ed's hair, which is already a bit mussed from sleep and earlier activities. “How soon will he arrive?”

“He's already flying back, unrelated, not really a concern for you too,” he says, muttering, “I hope,” under his breath. “He knows about the fire. He wants to look at it for himself, see if there’s something the team missed, or possibly overlooked on purpose.”

“I’m not sure which one I believe more,” Oswald starts, “the idea that some of the GCPD is still as corrupt as they always were, or that they’ve traded in corruption for genuine stupidity.”

It’s Jim’s turn to see red, although he doesn’t say anything aloud right away his face speaks volumes. He takes a few breaths, but it doesn’t stop the angry pulsing in his temple, or the way his gaze makes Ed feel like he wants to be absorbed by the couch. “I get that you’re angry,” he says, “okay? Your house was burned down. Barbara’s hideout is still a mystery to the GCPD  _ and  _ to Bruce or Ivy. But you’re not exactly helping your case every time you keep secrets for yourselves. Like involving Fish? That’s something you need to  _ tell  _ me. I want to help the two of you, but you’re really not making this easy.”

Ed uses the awkward silence following Jim’s plea to sit up properly, then allows himself to lean on Oswald, confident that Jim has either alienated the entire force from wanting to come talk to him or he’ll turn away anyone that still does. “Fish’s involvement isn’t your concern.”

“The whole city is my concern Ed,” he sighs. “That’s the  _ point _ . She isn’t going to start a war, is she? Or try to blow up a building?”

“If she does anything to Barbara at all, it will be because it was convenient to her. Small hits, maybe a sabotaged heist or bunker. Fish isn’t interested in taking on Barbara.”

“She’s always assumed Barbara would self destruct eventually,” Oswald adds. “Given her loss of her little friend I’d imagine she’s shouting Strange’s ear off as we speak.”

“About that,” Jim says, “you’re going to hear some rumors downstairs if you don’t take the back stairwell. You’re not under arrest, but,” he pauses for a long time, and the longer he goes without speaking the more concerned Ed gets, but Oswald puts an arm around his shoulders and taps his upper arm. “They think it was staged. Not everyone, but support is spreading.”

“Come again?” Oswald asks, although Ed knows Oswald understands the statement. “Do they think this is some simple case of insurance fraud?”

“Look, they don’t know about Strange. They don’t know Barbara wants to roast the two of you on a spit anymore than she normally does. From the officer’s perspectives The Riddler somehow knew that Firefly was on the roof before  _ any  _ sort of alarms were tripped, and he stopped her with  _ one dart _ . Things aren’t that clean and simple in Gotham, they never have been.”

“I only knew because of Ivy,” he says. He needs to thank her properly. Lights, maybe, or some new seeds.

“They don’t know about her either. So just don’t let it get to you if you hear them whispering, or hell, talking loudly on purpose. They want to provoke you, to rile you up so it’ll buy them time to build up a real case.”

“So I shouldn't be expecting an apology from the officer that did this,” he gestures to Ed's cheek, which doesn't sting as badly but it's still somewhat sore. He's disappointed that his leg still hurts too, but in his defense he'd hoped some rest would alleviate that. It did not.

“Don't hold your breath.” Jim grabs the mug off his desk and walks over to a small personal coffee maker. “If either of you want any you can get it yourself.”

“He  _ saved  _ the GCPD, James,” Oswald reminds him, pointedly, and while he rubs the shorter hairs just behind Ed's ear. “I think he's earned some sort of reward.” Jim looks at both of them like he wants to send them down to the proverbial wolves downstairs, but he grabs a paper cup from a small stack by his coffee maker and pours a cup. Oswald waits until Jim is nearly in front of them before adding, “he likes creamer.” Jim pauses in his tracks, looking dangerously close to just throwing the coffee on him. Oswald bats his eyelashes. “Jim our  _ house  _ was burned down.”

“I really do hate you both,” he says, but he still turns back and pours some creamer into the cup. Ed accepts the cup once it's offered to him and takes a small sip. It isn't as good as their usual roast, but it'll do. “I need to get Lee's input for Bridget's possible treatment.” The shock, probably. “Stay if you want, but don't go antagonizing anyone.”

“We have plenty to do up here to entertain ourselves,” Oswald says, and he makes Ed sit up long enough to retrieve the dolly with their things over to the couch. He sits back down and deflates a little. Joking aside, they lost their  _ home _ . Ed's spent the last few months missing his lounge chair in his library, and now he'll never get to use it again. He's sure Oswald is missing their custom bathtub, and his cherry wood desk. And something intangible feels like it's been ripped away and discarded, but he isn't familiar enough with what it was to know what he's missing, only that he hopes there's a way to get it back.

A box is deposited in his lap, Oswald's bout with melancholy forgotten for the time being. He nods to Oswald and opens the lid, reaching inside and pulling out a smaller garment box from inside.

“You're joking,” Oswald laughs. “Of all the  _ damn  _ things to survive.”

“What is it?” Jim asks, phone hanging away from his mouth, and Ed opens the box to show Jim the shimmery green suit inside. “Holy hell, you kept it?”

“It probably still fits,” Ed says. He's aged plenty since he last wore it but aside from graying hair and wrinkles his body hasn't softened up too much. He touches the green fondly, smiling down as the well tailored suit, wondering where the hat must have gone. Oswald’s closet, maybe, or maybe it didn't survive the fire. He takes a few more moments to feel the smooth satin lining and waistcoat, then he shuts the box tight and sets it aside, content to leave his shimmering suit days behind him.


	29. Chapter 29

Unlike the trip to Norway, Bruce doesn't get much sleep on the flight back. Selina sleeps, deeply, and even a bout of turbulence over the Atlantic doesn't wake her. Bruce is envious. Realistically he should feel safe, but there's nowhere to safely go in an aircraft, and he's still feeling frazzled from his dream the night before.

Right before their descent Selina wakes, stretching her whole body in her chair and wiping away residual sleep from her eyes. When she looks at Bruce her eyes widen for a moment and she sighs a bit sadly. “I think I was exaggerating when I said you looked like shit before,” she says softly. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Not really. I’ll sleep after I speak with Jim,” he promises her. He doesn’t think he can stay awake much longer without some sort of potentially harmful stimulants. Coffee hasn’t helped so far, and he's never been fond of energy drinks. “Will you be at the Manor?”

“Sure, after I get someone to carry my stuff. I hope you’re ready to have about thirty cats.”

“I hope that’s an exaggeration,” he jokes, but he has a feeling it’s not. Still, the thought of Selina's things coming into the Manor eases some of the excess tension Bruce is feeling, and he's able to get a few minutes of sleep before they land. It’s still fleeting, and definitely not enough, but he’ll take whatever rest he can get at the moment.

Alfred is already at the private air strip when they arrive. He holds open the car door for them both, welcoming them back with a polite, “welcome back sir, Miss Kyle.”

“Thank you Alfred.” Bruce hovers near the door after Selina gets in. “I think this might be the last trip we take for some time.”

“Change of plans sir?” Alfred asks. He glances into the car at Selina, and Bruce does the same. She’s probably listening, but she doesn’t inquire.

“It was a mutual decision,” he says, and they leave it at that.

He falls asleep the moment he rests his head against the rear driver’s side door, and he doesn’t wake up until it moves out from under him. There’s a hand on his shoulder, keeping him from hitting the pavement, and he looks up at Alfred, and at the stark, blatant worry on his face. “You’re looking like you’ve been through the ringer, Master B.”

“I didn’t sleep on the flight,” he explains. “I couldn’t.”

“Might I suggest you get some proper rest before you meet with Commissioner Gordon?”

“No, this shouldn’t take very long.” He exits the car and straightens out his clothes while looking up at the GCPD building. He’s thankful there’s an elevator. The nap in the car didn’t do much other than make Bruce’s body realize what it’s lacking. “There’s a party next week he wanted me to attend, something undercover and small. I’m sure he just wants to go over the details.”

“Right, of course,” he doesn’t sound convinced, and Bruce wants to ask, but he doesn’t get his thoughts organized before Alfred tells him, “have a nice chat sir,” and gets back into the car to drive away.

“That’s a bad sign,” he says to himself, and he enters the building through the front doors, nodding to a few officers he remembers by face but not by name on the way to the elevator, and he closes his eyes and rests his head against the wall while he waits for it to bring him to the fourth floor.

He knocks softly on Jim’s office door, and after waiting a moment he hears a quiet, “come in,” and Bruce enters. “I was just going to make some coffee. You look like you need it.”

“I might have neglected to sleep during the flight,” he says, pulling up one of the chairs and dropping himself onto it, letting his legs splay a bit as he allows himself to get comfortable. “Before you make any offer to postpone, I would actually prefer it if we discussed your plan about the charity dinner next week. I’m a little concerned that I won’t wake back up at a reasonable hour.”

“Fair enough,” Jim says, getting up and walking over to his coffee maker. “So is that a yes to coffee?”

“Yes, thank you,” he accepts, even though the actual caffeine won’t do him any good now, but he’s hoping having to maintain the muscle tension to hold a mug will keep his body going until he can crash properly. “Who do you think is planning on attacking the charity dinner?”

“Later, there’s been,” Jim pauses and shakes his head, “developments, since you left.”

“I was only gone for one week.”

“You say that like that  _ isn’t  _ a lot of time for Gotham,” Jim says. He hands Bruce a mug with black coffee inside and returns to his desk chair with his own mug in hand. “Let’s start with the gunmen that attacked Selina.”

“Right.”  _ Of course _ , he thinks. “Did you learn anything about their employer? Or what their goal was?”

“They didn’t say a word.” Jim digs through a stack of papers and files on his out box and pulls out four thin folders. “I had records make me a copy of their processing papers.”

“Perhaps we can offer something more to them? Perks, or a reduced sentence?”

“When I say they didn’t say a word I’m being literal,” Jim says as he hands over the folders. “None of them had any priors we could dig up, and none of them talked during any interviews  _ or  _ the sentencing. Some court appointed lawyer had them all plead guilty and we finished up processing them. All three of them were sent to gen pop over at Blackgate.”

Bruce leafs through the folders, noting four very non-descript men with very generic names and profiles. No history with crime, just as Jim said, and all of their interview transcripts are blank aside from a few questions asked by the officers. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Lee was actually kind of worried, thought we should maybe send them to Arkham in case this is more than a very strong sense of loyalty. But they’re not catatonic, just silent, so there wasn’t anything we could do.”

“It’s safe to assume they’re connected to Barbara’s gang.”

Jim nods. “She’s been busy this week.” He takes a long drink from his mug and Bruce does the same, sitting up a bit when he nearly spills on himself. “She sent Bridget Pike to burn down Ed and Oswald’s house.”

Bruce nearly spits out his coffee, and he sets the mug aside, staring at Jim, worried, confused, and he asks, “you don’t mean the Manor, correct?”

“No, Jesus, Bruce you think I’d let you stay in Norway when your house burned down? No, it’s one of Ed and Oswald’s personal homes. They have a few I guess, but, well, I think they were pretty attached to this one.” Jim gets this faraway, pained expression on his face, but it passes, fading back to the tired, neutral one from before. “They’re pissed, understandably, but they’re also pissing off the entire GCPD.”

“Why? To what end?” They’re not known for always being the most reasonable people in Gotham but they don’t usually actively sabotage the only, albeit tenuous, support they have from the city.

“Well, we’ve found nothing,” Jim sighs. “They’re being brutally honest and the officers don’t like that, especially not from them, not when they’re already reluctant to help. And what’s somehow worse is Barbara went back underground. We haven’t heard a peep from her since the fire.”

“So they’re only going to get more frustrated,” Bruce posits, and Jim nods reluctantly. “Strange must have other secret bases within the city.”

“I hate to agree with you but there isn’t really a better explanation.”

Bruce grabs his mug again and moves a finger back and forth around the rim. “How do we find them? Traditionally I would just  _ look _ , maybe focus on areas with unusual deliveries or a distinct lack of traffic, but with Strange-”

“No, no don’t go looking on your own. You destroyed Ed’s old network but we don’t know what Strange may have put up in any of his hideouts. Strange may have lost a good portion of his army but if he manages to get you again I’m not sure we could really stop him.”

Bruce wants to disagree. There’s Victor Fries and his freeze gun, and Ivy with her plants, but then again, if Strange gets Bruce what’s stopping him from making Bruce take control of Ivy or Victor? Or anyone, really? Right now Bruce is someone they trust, at least enough to get close, definitely close enough to say a simple phrase. “What if Strange is biding his time because he’s perfecting his control?”

Neither of them answer Bruce’s question, because the answer is obvious. If he hasn’t already he’s certainly trying to make a flawless control system, and once he has it he only has to gain control once to have it forever. Bruce doesn’t look up from his coffee when he adds, “I think I shouldn’t go on patrol anymore, at least not until we figure out a way to move forward.”

“I have your number if we ever need your help,” Jim says softly, “and I know Ed and Oswald would disagree but if you can write off Barbara and Strange as outliers the rogues of Gotham are actually starting to lose influence.”

“We may actually be able to thank Oswald for that.” He may be operating above the table now but he’s still as ruthless a businessman as he ever was. There’s a good reason why he’s still a very real threat for Barbara’s empire.

“Bet he’d love to hear that from me,” Jim mutters. “The news isn’t all bad though. Ed managed to apprehend Bridget.”

Bruce blinks. “ _ Ed  _ apprehended her.”

“Used Ivy’s plants to detect her and shot her with a tranq dart, which the force is  _ not  _ happy about him having those, but hell, they saved the building from going up in flames. Lee’s keeping a close eye on her progress out at Arkham. Said something about exhausting all other options before opting to use electroshock.”

“But if it’ll work-”

“Don’t know if it will. Bridget, well, you might not actually remember the Goddess. She was kind of before your time.”

“I’ve read her file,” he says. He distinctly remembers Strange having a hand in that as well. “That sounds unusual, but I don’t think we should waste time using other psychiatric methods when we know this one works.”

“We’re going to have to trust Lee on this. This is her area.” He shrugs, a sort of “what can you do?” and he leans back in his chair. “She’ll keep us posted.”

“I wish I could do more to help.”

“You’re joking, right? Bruce, there are already  _ five  _ rogues staying at your place, plus Fries’ wife. You’re doing more than your fair share.” Jim gets a thoughtful look on his face. “What does Fries know about Strange?”

“He hasn’t been very forthcoming,” Bruce says. “Not about the actual conditioning he went through. He doesn’t remember much else. Flashes, brief moments, but those were mostly in the warehouse where Strange kept Nora. He mentioned the college once, a loading dock. When I described the lab I was brought to he shut down a bit, and his mood darkened rapidly. The memories are still rather painful. I believe he was brought there at some point for the conditioning.”

“Makes sense. Looked like that kind of place.” Jim shivers and takes a drink from his mug, grimacing at what must be a now lukewarm cup of coffee. “So Strange and Barbara are at large, but they’ve lost Bridget, and I’ll be honest I don’t think they have much else right now, based on what we know.”

“He has the pieces for an army, but they’re scattered.”

“Let’s do our best to keep it that way.” Jim leans forward to set his mug back down and folds his hands on top of his desk. “Now that we’re done with all the bad news, you ready to hear about the party?”

-

Bruce sleeps like the dead the second his head hits a relatively soft spot on his bed. He misses his pillow, something he doesn’t learn until he wakes the next morning, and while he’s a bit disappointed to find himself waking up alone he can understand why Selina wouldn’t bother trying to share the bed when Bruce is spread across most of the surface.

It’s too much sleep after too little, and it leaves him groggy but less bone-tired. He cuts his cheek while shaving, something he hasn’t done in ages, and while it isn’t deep it still stings. His thoughts are disjointed, somewhere between an urgent need to get himself moving faster to get to work at a reasonable hour and the desire to stand in his shower for at least an hour just to try and pull himself together into something resembling a real person. He compromises with a ten minute shower and a promise to himself that he’ll eat a genuine, warm breakfast to give himself some extra time.

On his way to the kitchen he can hear a spoon scraping at the side of a bowl, and a familiar bald head hunched over something. He smiles briefly, and by the time he’s rounded the table he gets a good glimpse into the bowl Zsasz is using, but he isn’t really certain what sort of concoction he’s thrown together for his breakfast. The syrup near his bowl is rather alarming, as is the empty box of cereal, tipped onto its side and ignored in favor of a second box.

Zsasz waves with his spoon for a moment before returning to his food, and Bruce nods. “I wasn’t sure if you’d managed to convince Alfred to give you roaming privileges.”

“Guy’s a pretty reasonable dude, BW.” He chugs from a carton of almond milk and lets out a satisfied gasp once he sets it down. “Messed up your face a little.”

“I shaved,” he says, not really content with the explanation but unable to conjure up anything less blunt. “You look rather well adjusted.”

Zsasz shrugs. “Dealt with worse. Got one request though. See, there’s one of your showers with the built-in speakers and I’m gunning for it. Think you can pull any strings?”

Bruce takes a moment to pull a carton of eggs and some english muffins from the fridge before answering. “I believe Victor Fries and his wife are using the attached guest room. Although I suppose that’s an easy enough addition to any shower.”

“Knew you wouldn’t let me down B,” he pours a rather alarming amount of syrup into his bowl of cereal, along with a splash of almond milk. He talks around a bite of overly sugared cereal. “So you got any sort of curfew or is this more like an honor system?”

“Jim would rather see you remain under house arrest for the time being.” He watches the pat of butter sizzling in his pan instead of letting Zsasz’s gloom and doom expression sway him in his half awake state. “Although he’s trusting you to a point, if I’m not mistaken, since you’re not wearing any sort of monitoring device. I would prefer if you didn’t give us any cause to want to change that.”

Zsasz shrugs. “We’ll see.”

Bruce isn’t in the mood to discuss what he means while he’s not at his best. “If there’s good reason for you to leave temporarily I’d be open to discussion, for the record.” In order to gain trust he has to give it, and he’d like to continue rebuilding that between Zsasz and himself. On that note, “are you still taking your medication?”

He watches Zsasz lift a small paper cup and jiggle it enough to hear something rattling inside, then he tosses it back like he’s doing a shot and throws it at the empty cereal box. Bruce nods once, feeling good about having Zsasz at the Manor and away from Strange’s influence, and he turns back to his food.

-

“Mr. Wayne, Silver St. Cloud is here to see you.”

“Thank you, Brenda, let her in.” Bruce sits back and tosses a folder at his desk, and the click of Silver’s low heels approaching his desk makes him smile. “You didn’t have to come all this way.”

“I wanted to welcome you back,” she says, holding out a paper cup with a lid, “it’s tea.”

“Thank you,” he says, accepting the cup and smelling the tea. He isn’t as well versed in teas, but it reminds him of chamomile, or something similar. Mild, and rather pleasant, with an earthy, fragrant body. He takes a tentative sip, and decides it probably is chamomile, but with a little something extra. “Lavender?”

“Lavender sugar,” she corrects. “I love the smell of lavender.”

_ Her hair smells like lavender. _ “It’s nice, thank you.” He takes another drink before setting the cup down. “Are you the one running the charity dinner this Friday?”

“No, but I was asked. I thought it would be nice to just attend something for once. It’s way less stressful.” She takes a drink from her own cup and sighs happily. “You probably understand wanting breaks. You take them all the time.”

“Only every other month,” he jokes. Although that might be accurate. “I’m not planning on leaving again in the near future.”

“Oh, right, the baby,” she smiles. “I still can’t really believe it sometimes.”

“Neither can I.” Although it hits him at odd times during the day, mostly when he opens his wallet and sees the sonogram, now well worn and about a month behind. He should get an updated one during Selina’s next exam. “December, if it actually comes on the due date.”

“It’s nearly September.”

“I know,” he sighs, ignoring the urge to pull out his wallet, as if he hasn’t looked enough to memorize the black and white image. He looks back up at Silver, at her warm, genuine smile, and he smiles back. “Do you want to go to the charity dinner with me?”

-

The charity dinner is for the hospital, for a new children's wing and equipment, and Bruce is glad the city is so supportive but he's already worn down from the massive throng of people trying to enter the grand hall at the Gotham Royal hotel.

Silver is on his arm, patting his elbow and smiling at people, and it helps to have someone here with him, even if it's just as a friend, and he musters the will to go inside and mingle for the first half hour before he sees Jim slipping through the crowd.

“I'll be right back,” he tells Silver, and he detaches from her in order to direct Jim towards a relatively empty corner of the room. “Good evening Commissioner.”

“Glad to see you Bruce,” he says. “Got in a fight with your friend on the way over?”

Bruce touches the still healing mark on his face and laughs self-deprecatingly. “I cut myself shaving, actually. Two days ago.”

“Of all the things to leave a scar.” Jim shakes his head. “Story isn’t near as exciting as some of your other ones.”

“Between you and me I think I prefer it this way.” He waits a moment until some of the crowd clears up around them, then he whispers, “you didn't mention it would be this crowded.”

“Someone severely underestimated the number of people planning to attend,” Jim says just as quietly. “We're still within fire code, but just barely.”

“It's going to be difficult to spot Crane in this big of a crowd.” He gives the crowd another look, pauses to smile back at Silver when she waves from over by one of the hors d'oeuvres tables, and continues on, satisfied for now that everyone is safe. “The tip wasn't more specific?”

“It was barely a tip in the first place, more like a rumor, but I just had this gut feeling about it. Haven't heard a peep from Crane in ages.”

“Neither have I.” If he's honest he was actually beginning to wonder if something had happened to Crane. “I have my suit in a room on the first floor of the hotel.”

“Here's hoping we won't need it,” Jim claps his hand into Bruce's and they shake. “Don't have too much fun tonight.”

Bruce laughs through his nose. “I’ll try to behave myself.”

“I’m sure you will, and between you and me, there are more plainclothes officers in the crowd. Everyone’s keeping an eye out.” Jim accepts a wine glass for himself and Bruce from a server as he passes. “Here’s to a boring evening at a party.”

“Agreed,” Bruce toasts with Jim and takes a polite sip of his wine before honing in on the nearest surface he can leave it behind on. “I should get back to Silver.”

Bruce can’t seem to make himself fully engage in the party, but Silver does enough talking for the both of them. She’s entertaining and friendly, and plenty of Gotham’s finest focus on her welcoming, inviting expressions over Bruce’s stoic demeanor. It allows Bruce to scan the party in constant intervals, and all he’s required to do is acknowledge people every so often and laugh occasionally.

Dinner at least gives him the excuse to eat instead of talk, and the event moves seamlessly from the main course to the dessert to the results of the silent auction, which Bruce didn’t bother bidding on in favor of just donating outright. He’s beginning to think the rumor was just that, a clever lie to distract the GCPD, and he’s actually beginning to relax. A live band starts playing following the auction, the actual party half of the event getting into full swing now that the charity portion of the event is over, and Bruce is about to ask Silver if she’d like to dance when he sees a stoic, unblinking man watching him from across the grand hall.

_ Jonathan _ . “Silver I need to make a phone call,” he says lowly and quickly, and he leaves the main hall before she can ask why. Jonathan smirks at him briefly, and he ducks through a doorway, leaving Bruce stuck in a throng of people, desperate to make his way through the room without getting stopped by anyone on the way. He’s moderately successful, if a bit rude, but the alternative is far worse than a few miffed socialites.

He almost expects him to be standing out in the empty hall, waiting, ready to taunt Bruce for taking so long. But the hallway is empty, and Bruce continues down the hall until he’s leaving the event center portion of the hotel and walking through the halls leading to some of the hotel rooms.

_ He’s here for a reason, he wouldn’t just leave _ , Bruce thinks. It isn’t unreasonable to assume his plans involve more than just making Bruce act strange in front of people. There’s a loud thunk somewhere down the hall and Bruce runs forward, searching for a door heavy enough to make the sound.

Roof access, or more accurately, access to some of the ventilation. Bruce digs through his wallet and pulls out his room key. He requested the room closest to the stairs for a reason, and now it’s paying off, because he lets himself inside and begins exchanging his suit for his armor almost immediately.

Capacity is approximately five thousand in the event hall. The hotel is at its busiest during the weekend, and with the event there’s a reasonable assumption that every room is booked. Access to the ventilation shafts means Jonathan can release a gas into it that could reach  _ thousands _ without much effort.

Bruce listens at the door for a moment, hears nothing, and he slips out into the hall. It’s empty, and so is the stairwell leading to the roof. Bruce takes the stairs two at a time, rushing up past the other hotel floors until he’s reached the roof access door. The lock was picked, tools still hanging loosely from the mechanism, and Bruce takes out a batarang, ready to encounter some sort of trap on the other side of the door.

There isn’t one, unless a light drizzle was all a part of his plan. Bruce searches the roof and finds an open ventilation vent, and he steels himself before climbing inside. There's some scuffling and banging further ahead in the shaft. If the roof wasn’t a trap  _ this  _ certainly is, and he’s on edge for at least five hundred feet of dark, twisting shafts before he gets a faint whiff of something. Food. The kitchen, maybe, or possibly the event hall, still filled with bite sized morsels and the leftovers from the dinner. He crawls forward a bit and peers out one of the vents along his left side, searching the area and confirming their location above the event hall. He thinks he can see Silver among the crowd, but he isn't certain.

To his right there's a secondary shaft, one recessed and most likely above the hallway leading to the event hall. Bruce turns the corner and continues crawling through the vents, feeling a bit dismayed that they're getting somewhat narrower the further he goes. Getting out fast is going to be difficult.

Further ahead still there's an unusual amount of light, and once Bruce reaches the source he finds an open vent, smaller than he's able to crawl through but certainly large enough for Jonathan. Bruce is beginning to consider the possibility that this is still just an elaborate ruse to get him stuck in the vents when he breathes in something sharp, pungent, and there's a rushing sound in his ears, a voice, deep and slow, “ _ blood makes you related, loyalty makes you family _ ” and he curls in on himself as much as he's able, feeling the dark, slimy feeling tendrils of control as they seep into his consciousness, driving away his will and sending his actual self into a deep, dark place inside the core of his consciousness.

He pulls out a taser, fumbles with the switch until it's on, and shocks himself in the leg. Tensing when the shock tries to make him clench his hand, but the taser switches off automatically once the shock is administered, and eventually his arm relaxes. It leaves his limbs tingling for a few minutes after, but eventually the quaking passes.

The roaring in his ears fades, and then it redoubles, growing stronger, echoing around in his skull. Strange must have perfected it, strengthened it, but Bruce tries again, shocking himself longer, struggling to keep his limbs from banging around in the vents as they spasm and shake.

There are spots in his vision, blurry motes floating around, and he takes a deep breath, steeling himself as it washes over him again, and he's hit with a pungent, stinging smell.

The smell. Bruce reaches into his belt, searching for his portable respirator, and he pulls it up to his mouth, breathing deeply and focusing on the sound of the respirator as it cleanses the air around him. As the smell fades so does the rushing, and he's able to truly relax.

He taps his communicator twice, moving his respirator enough to tell Jim, “evacuate the event hall.”

“Kind of an unexpected turn. Why?” Jim whispers, presumably still among the rest of the guests.

“I followed Crane into the air vents and he's let off some of his fear gas inside. I think he's gone, but I'm going to keep looking to see if there's more set off to release into the party.”

“Jesus okay,” he sighs. “I'll get people headed to the exits. Be careful up up there.”

“Thank you.” Bruce clicks off his communicator and breathes in a few deep breaths through the respirator again. He's lying on his back in the vents, eyes half-lidded and worn down from the shocks. He studies the metal above him, reaching out to touch one of the thick seams connecting some of the pieces together. Eventually he feels more or less like himself, and he rolls back over and begins searching for any sort of gas canister Jonathan may have left inside.

He doesn't have to go very far. Beyond the vent Jonathan used to get away Bruce finds a barely opened gas canister in a small vent leading to the hallway outside the event hall. He examines the outside and determines it's just that, a gas canister left open intentionally, and he closes the valve to stop the steady flow of gas.

There's a note attached to the bottom of the tank, and he holds the paper near a vent to read the messy scrawl. “Now that I have your attention, I'd like to demonstrate the effects of fear gas combined with varying levels of inebriation.” He tosses the note aside and move backwards, trying to turn around quickly and make his way to the event hall. The canister can wait; if Bruce isn't quick enough the entire hall will be flooded with gas in minutes.

He taps twice. “Jim the situation has escalated. How is the evacuation going?”

“Slow. How escalated are we talking?”

“There's an air canister of his gas in the vents with a note suggesting there's more elsewhere. A lot of gas, enough to fill the entire event hall.”

There's a brief pause, them Jim yelling, “GCPD-” and his line clicking off. Good. He'll get everyone to safety.

Bruce moves until he finds a vent large enough to fit through and he pries it open. He takes a moment to double check that his respirator is secure before dropping feet first into the event hall floor, ignoring the hustling attendees and moving to the opposite end of the hall.

Part of the event hall is a stage, raised a good four feet off the ground and often the location of live bands or other entertainment acts. Bruce climbs up onto the stage and scans the catwalks above, looking for any signs of a bomb or other similar device.

“Silver's looking for you,” Jim appears to his right and indicates a metal, boxy object Bruce was about to investigate, “that doesn't look right.”

He lifts up his respirator. “What did you tell her?”

“That I saw you leave out a different door. Something about helping someone. Can't remember.” Jim stays below as Bruce moves into the back area of the stage and finds a ladder to the catwalk. “That Crane’s?”

“It's a bit different than some of his older models,” Bruce calls down to him. He examines the outside, which is sleek and mostly unhelpful. The only thing he finds on the surface is a timer, blinking as it counts down from five. “Jim there's not enough time to stop it.”

“We'll have to quarantine the area. Just come down, we’ll notify paramedics and the closest hospitals. Could have been a lot worse than a ruined event.”

Bruce nods, and gives the device one last look- “Jim, hold your breath!”

The timer was faked, likely never important to begin with. Bruce puts his respirator on as the room begins filling with gas, and he jumps down to the stage, rushing to Jim and thrusting a second respirator into his face. Jim nods in thanks, and the two rush out of the event hall and over to the doors leading to the outside, which Jim slams shut the second Bruce clears the threshold.

“Only in Gotham, Jesus,” he tosses the respirator off and shakes his head. “I need to organize the officers.”

Bruce takes off his respirator and drops it to the ground by Jim's. “I need to find Silver. Contact me if you need any more help.”

“Will do. You did good,” Jim claps Bruce's shoulder and walks away, hand already pulling out his phone so he can bark orders at the plainclothes officers.

Bruce scans the crowd of people still hovering near the entrance to the event hall and finds Silver near a window. She's looking out at the group, craning her neck to try and see. Jim’s attempt to reassure her didn’t seem to help, and Bruce clears his throat as he approaches, noting the obvious worry on her face.

“Did you see Bruce Wayne inside?”

“He exited the hall using one of the alternate exits,” Bruce rasps, disguising his voice for Silver. He doesn’t want to accidentally drag her into this life if he can help it. “No one was left inside.”

The worry doesn’t go away completely, but it’s less prominent. Silver stops trying to find Bruce in the crowd and focuses up at him, smiling softly, then blinking, and Bruce watches as her confusion morphs into recognition, and she hones in on the cut he gave himself shaving. “Bruce?”

It feels like an accusation, and he can’t seem to conjure up any sort of rebuttal, because she’s staring right into his eyes, touching the faint cut on his cheek with her soft hands, and he backs up a few steps, clearing his throat again, attempting to rasp his voice when he tells her, “you should move to a minimum of fifty feet from the doors in case the seal isn’t tight,” and he’s rushing off. She’s smart enough to not call him by name, although the way she’s staring when he looks back feels just as loud.


	30. Chapter 30

“I’m sure you’re both wondering why I’ve sought your input,” Bruce begins. He laces his fingers together on the kitchen counter, leaning over heavily, looking rather grim and tired. Victor’s currently rooting around in the freezer, although when Ed looks over Victor’s looking back at him while holding an ice cube tray. “Jim and I have already discussed a few possibilities, but the two of you may be able to clarify some things.” He pauses long enough for Victor to pour himself some sort of beverage and join them at the counter. “Do either of you know if Jonathan Crane is working with Strange?”

“Scarecrow?” Ed verifies, somewhat bewildered. “I suppose he does know biochemistry, psychology. It’s certainly not impossible.”

“Do you have any insight, Victor?” Bruce’s tone is softer than Ed expected, gentle. Despite this Victor still has a sour look on his face.

“I never saw him myself.” Victor is curt; there’s a hard edge to his voice when he continues, “Strange is pretty careful about things like that.”

“Isolating his assets?” Ed posits. Victor slams his glass down on the counter and stalks out of the room, and Bruce is giving him a  _ look _ . “Am I wrong?” he half yells.

“This is still a difficult subject for him.” As if Ed couldn’t figure that out himself. “Moving forward, I think we have to assume they’re somehow connected. I couldn’t get close enough to see if he’s being controlled by Strange, but we already know Barbara is working with him voluntarily. It’s possible Crane is as well.”

“Strange doesn’t need a second psychiatrist on his team.” His ego’s certainly big enough to assume he’d be the expert.

“I agree. It’s more likely that he’s there to offer his expertise in biochemistry.”

“Bio,” Ed trails off, and he pushes himself up and away from the counter. “I have a theory. I'll share my results later.”

He enters the Batcave, scanning the space from his vantage point on the stairs, and when he sees stark white hair he descends the rest of the way into the lab. Victor doesn't acknowledge his approach and continues to fiddle with equipment on his lab bench.

“I knew you'd be down here,” Ed says, getting a bit closer when he determines that Victor isn't actually doing any sort of work.

“You guessed I'd be down here.”

Ed fumes. “I had a  _ strongly  _ supported hypothesis-”

“What do you want?” Victor turns to face him. He looks bored, maybe tired. Maybe both.

“The serum Strange uses during his conditioning,” he starts, and he has Victor's full attention. “Did Crane make it for Strange?” Victor's hand clenches around a thin walled test tube and it snaps. He doesn't seem to notice, preferring to stare down Ed in a way that makes him feel particularly vulnerable. He doesn't look tired anymore. “Is that a yes?”

Victor doesn't answer. He unclenches his hand and swears down at a small cut on his palm. Ed goes to retrieve a first aid kit for him, using it as an excuse to separate them both for a bit. When he returns Victor's back to looking tired, and he accepts Ed's help willingly enough. He holds up Victor's hand in his own and examines it for shards, using a small pair of tweezers from the kit to pull one small sliver out of the shallow wound. “It shouldn't need any stitches.” Ed pulls a small gauze pad out of the kit and some medical tape. “This should be sufficient.”

“You're too warm.” Victor shakes Ed off before he can apply the bandage. “I can't touch anyone.”

“Ah,” Ed doesn't mention the part where Nora is included in this category. He definitely already knows, and Ed's on  _ thin ice  _ with him as it is. “My question about Crane wasn't rhetorical.”

“I don't know the answer,” he snaps. He starts bandaging his own hand with the gauze from the kit. In a much calmer tone he adds, “it's a decent working theory, but you won't be able to prove it.”

“I tested my blood within twenty-four hours of the initial injection. There was,” he shakes his hands, frustrated, “something, but when I finally had time to isolate the anomaly I couldn't find it again.”

“It probably degraded.”

“Impossible.” Ed shakes his head. “The sample was frozen.”

Victor sighs and examines the bandage he's put on his hand. Ed doesn't need his  _ pity _ . He knows he should have extracted it sooner, but Oswald made him go to the hospital because he was “damaging his leg further”, as if sitting by a lab bench was actually that harmful.

“It had to work on me,” he says. He looks up at Ed, angry, but it doesn't feel like it's directed at Ed per se, rather it's just a generalized feeling when Strange is involved. “No evidence. That's how he operates. It had to degrade in cold temperatures.”

There's no evidence against Victor's theory, but Ed doesn't like that there isn't much supporting it either. “So Crane makes his serum, and gets what?”

“What do any of them get? The only one really benefitting is Strange.” Victor flexes his hand around the bandage and turns away from Ed. He begins cleaning up the broken glass from the tube. “Willing or not, they work for him.”

Ed watches Victor as he carefully picks up the pieces of glass on the bench. There's too many loose ends, too many whys going unaddressed, and Ed needs  _ answers _ . “You don't remember anything?”

Victor braces himself on the lab bench, sneering over at Ed. He's practically snarling when he tells Ed, “leave it.”

“No buildings?” he presses. “Or streets?” Victor ignores him, shoulders stiff as he manages to release the bench and goes back to cleaning. “You could try hypnotic therapy.”

Victor turns around and grabs Ed by the shirt, dragging him closer and glaring, staring him down. “Stop. Talking.”

“Right,” Ed holds up his hands in surrender, and Victor releases him, leaving him to stagger back as he rights himself. “Sorry. Just trying to find a lead.”

“I can always learn to make Nora's medication myself,” he says, eerily calm now, and Ed doesn't reply as he leaves the Batcave so Victor can be alone.

-

“I upset him,” Ed says. He tilts his head to the right and watches Lee dunk a tea bag into her mug a few times. “I'm sure you've already heard.”

“I haven't,” she says. “Since you brought it up would you like to talk about it?”

_ No,  _ he thinks,  _ and yes _ . “I asked about Strange. We've made no progress investigating him, and things have complicated further. Crane is possibly involved.”

“That I do know. And Jim told me about how you saved the day when you stopped Bridget Pike.”

“She burned down my home.”

“And now she's in Arkham. I know that doesn't actually encourage you, but there's been no reported incidents following the one involving Victor Zsasz.” She's trying to make him feel calm, reassured. He feels like his concerns are being ignored.

Ed fiddles with a small stress ball Lee gave him when he first entered her office. It's a boring, single shade of blue with a logo for some sort of company printed on one side. He squeezes it, watching the letters distort and twist. “I meant Victor Fries, when I mentioned the person I upset.”

“How did you upset him?”

“You aren't asking why?”

“I think why implies you meant to, and how gives you the benefit of the doubt.”

Ed nods and gives the ball another squeeze. “I asked what he remembered about the time he was under Strange's control.”

Lee sucks in a breath. “Ed-”

“We have  _ nothing,  _ and he's, there's a higher chance he'd remember something.” He sits up, eager to explain away the disappointment on Lee's face. “I've suggested hypnotic therapy to him. It might help him recover the memories of some of the locations he's been.”

Lee moves her tea aside and folds her hands, resting her chin against her thumbs. “You want me to give him hypnotic therapy even though he doesn't want it.”

“It's more for fact finding than therapy.”

“I'm not going to do that, and don't start,” he snaps his mouth shut. “That would bring up hundreds of painful, traumatic memories for him, and I’m not going to help you find out the answers to a puzzle at someone else's expense.”

“What about Bridget?” He continues quickly when she looks like she’s about to yell at him again, “she hasn’t been shocked! There’s no other way to break Strange’s control. If you shock her like we’ve done with everyone else she may remember, or be more willing to help.”

Lee shakes her head. “We already tried that last night.”

“That doesn’t sound very positive.” Lee doesn’t say anything more. Ed blinks slow, disappointed, and he moves back to his previous position on the couch. “She’s willingly helping him?”

“I don’t know what Bridget was doing,” Lee admits, “but I’m not going to discuss a patient with you.”

“What about broad strokes? You’d discuss this sort of thing with a friend of hers if I’m not mistaken.” Not that he’s ever been on friendly terms with Bridget, but Oswald was at one point, and Selina. He can claim some sort of friendship by proxy.

“Fine. Bridget seems to have returned to the idea that she's a Goddess of some sort. She didn’t respond to the electric shock the way Bruce and Victor did. If anything it made her more irritable.” Lee picks up her mug of tea again and takes a long sip. “We have several options moving forward, but they all take time, and I can’t guarantee anything this early on in her treatment.”

So it’s a dead end. Ed sighs to himself and closes his eyes. “I think we’re done for today.”

-

“September 4th, I need to recalibrate my scales.” He sets his recorder on the lab bench and looks over to Victor’s station, which is currently abandoned at this late hour. A thorough search of the rest of the Batcave tells Ed he’s truly alone, and he moves away from his lab bench and over to Bruce’s computer station.

As much as Arkham may have improved over the years Ed still finds their files ridiculously easy to access; he bypasses the meager security measures in minutes and begins sifting through countless logs and files until he finds one labelled ‘Pike, Bridget’.

He skips past the small biographical blurb on the first document and finds the most recent psych evaluation available. There’s a recording, which he downright ignores, and instead he selects a typed transcript of the session. At first there’s several questions about her past, about people she should recognize, and Ed skips over most of it aside from the occasional skim. He isn’t interested in learning her secrets; he only wants to know if Lee’s actually being thorough when she talks with patients.

_ Thompkins: What can you tell me about Strange, Bridget? _

Bingo.

_ Bridget: Stay on task. Don’t burn the books, you’ll only draw unwanted attention to yourself. A goddess doesn’t listen to lowlives like him. _ There’s a note here that Bridget’s demeanor suggested a level of contempt for Strange, and superiority. She doesn’t say anything more about Strange during the session.

Books. Ed closes the files and turns his attention to the news cycle, dating back at least ten years. He excludes the months Bridget was at Arkham from his results and begins searching for keywords. ‘Fire’, ‘books’, ‘library’, and he begins scanning his narrowed results. There are certainly a lot of fires that happen in Gotham in a single year, let alone ten, but only a handful that involve collections of books, one of which was the Gotham University Library, in one of the half story stacks that were added when the collection grew too large for the existing space.

It’s flimsy, but it’s a  _ lead _ nonetheless. Ed pulls up a floorplan for the University library and memorizes the space, then he erases all evidence that he was ever on Bruce’s computer and retrieves his recorder.

“Scales are all within validation specifications. No further maintenance required.” He switches it off and pockets it, and for good measure he moves each scale to the right a quarter inch.

-

“I have a lead,” he whispers in Oswald’s ear, interrupting his morning paper.

“Who have you told?” Oswald asks, equally as quiet, head tipped back to rest on Ed’s shoulder.

Ed glances over to Zsasz, who’s apparently still used to being out of the loop when Ed and Oswald are concerned, because he’s still focused on his own paper and a plate piled high with pancakes.

“No one, except you.”

“Good.” Oswald reaches up and touches Ed’s cheek fondly. “Tell me after I finish my coffee.” Ed nods and joins them at the table. “Victor and I were just reminiscing.”

“About what?” Ed claims the chair next to Oswald and steals his mug of coffee, frowning down at the lack of creamer.

“This and that,” Oswald says as he takes his mug back. He folds his paper and sets it aside. “We had a good run. Your loyalty was, and still is, very admirable and appreciated. It's a rare trait.”

“He's buttering me up.” Zsasz smirks and does the same to his pancakes.

“I am being  _ sincere _ ,” Oswald says. “Although between Ed's little revelation he's had and my own planning, I do have a request for you. As always, you are not honor bound to accept, I only ask that you hear me out.”

“I didn't tell you anything yet,” Ed whispers.

“Would it require protection?” Oswald asks, not bothering to be near as quiet as Ed. He nods. “That's all I need to know for now. And as for you,” he points to Zsasz, “you've managed to hold onto your reputation as one of Gotham's finest marksman.”

“Yeah maybe. This going to lead to a hit? Cuz I'm trying to not do that.” He shoves nearly half a pancake into his mouth and keeps talking. “See this place,” he gestures with his fork around him, “has  _ awesome  _ shit in it, and right now Gordon’s not all pissed about me getting to use it whenever I want.”

“Are you done?” Oswald asks. “I want you on our team again because of your reputation. Think of yourself as a figurehead.”

“Eh,” Zsasz shrugs. “Pass.”

“What.” Oswald’s eye twitches. Ed puts a hand on Oswald’s leg and squeezes lightly. “Please, do explain your reasoning. I’m telling you I don’t  _ want  _ a hit. You don’t have to do anything but  _ exist _ .”

“Yeah but I don’t want to wear a suit.”

Oswald has never looked closer to either strangling Zsasz or having some sort of stress induced aneurysm. “What on earth are you talking about?” He doesn’t sound like he actually wants an answer. “What suit?”

“Suits. You know, because a figurehead is always in the spotlight so they have to look good. I think I'm done with suits. Have you two tried sweatpants?” Neither of them answer. He leans forward, shoving his food off to the side in the process. “Do you _sleep_ _in_ a three piece? Maybe that’s why you’re both so uptight all the time.”

“I don’t see what my choice of sleepwear has to do with my request,” Oswald says this slowly, measured, and in a way that sounds like he’s contemplating killing Zsasz now rather than suffer through another meeting like this in the future. “Are you actually out or are you just being a nuisance?”

Zsasz shrugs. “I think a suit is a deal breaker.”

He smirks, leaning back in his chair now and returning his attention to his breakfast. Ed watches his demeanor, which is relaxed and calm, and Oswald's, which is most definitely not, and it all feels very familiar. “Oh,” Ed sighs. “He’s messing with you.”

“I can see that,” Oswald sighs as well, although he always manages to sound more put out by Zsasz’s antics. “Are you even aware just how much of what you do is performative or are you no longer capable of that sort of introspection.” Zsasz shrugs, indifferent. “You know I'm not asking for a  _ literal figurehead _ . I'm asking for my bodyguard and chief of security to get his head out of his ass and  _ do his job. _ ”

“That involve leaving the house?”

“Is that somehow a deal breaker for you?” He's too tense. Ed rubs his fingers along Oswald's thigh, and the brief, grateful look Oswald gives him makes him feel warm. “Yes, it does. But only briefly.”

Zsasz nods. “Okay.”

“As much as I trust Zsasz to protect us,” Ed says, “having a few more eyes would be beneficial.”

“I already have an idea about that. Victor, tell me, I know you haven't maintained contact, but of all of your old followers how many would be available for this kind of work?”

“Let's see,” he holds up his hands and begins ticking off people with his fingers. “Dead. Dead. Blackgate, then dead.  _ Very  _ dead. Probably dead.” He pauses when he moves onto his next hand, staring at two fingers as he holds them up. “Two. Maybe only one.”

“We'll make it work. Now,” he puts a hand on Ed's knee and squeezes, “Ed and I will discuss our plan and organize the team. You just try to not make a nuisance of yourself and end up under house arrest.”

“No promises,” he says cheerfully. Ed ushers Oswald up and out of his chair before he can throw a fit.

-

“September 9th, one of the spectrophotometers is currently in need of maintenance. Production of the medication and coolant will be put on hold until repairs are complete.”

Ed sets aside his recorder and opens up the back panel for the spectrophotometer. He spreads a few relevant tools out on the lab bench and flips open a manual for the equipment. Once the station is set up Ed switches off his recorder and steps back, scanning the bench for any improvements.

“If you’re done playing I’ve secured a ride.”

“Oswald,” Ed turns and presents the lab bench to him. “I’ve just completed my alibi for the evening.”

“I trust it’s more than sufficient,” he says, eyeing the station with disinterest. “Everyone’s asleep but us.”

“And Zsasz.”

“Do you think I’d bother coming to you about a ride if a third of our team wasn’t ready?” He holds out an arm, which Ed takes, and starts moving towards the back entrance to the Batcave. “She should be here shortly.”

“She?” Oswald looks over for a moment, but he doesn’t reply. “You can’t mean Fish.”

“If she sought fit to actually  _ help  _ we wouldn’t need a bodyguard.” He nods over to Zsasz, who despite all his posturing has apparently agreed to wear something a bit more formal than sweats, not that black jeans are all that formal. “It’s just one of his people.”

They both know there’s no  _ just  _ when it comes to the particular people willing to run with Zsasz’s crew, but it’s to their benefit. It’s Gang, most likely, because Ed can’t really see Tawny going back to legwork when she’s established such a strong rumor network in the city.

Outside the back entrance a sleek black four door pulls up the dirt drive and parks just beyond the light cast off from the still open doorway. As it shuts the driver shuts the headlights off, and the three of them move through the shadows and over to the vehicle. Zsasz gets into the front seat without hesitation, and Ed and Oswald follow suit in the back.

He’s correct, and Gang glances back for a moment before returning her attentions to the windshield, throwing the car into reverse and backing away without turning the lights back on.

“I trust you brought the weapons I requested,” Oswald says. There’s a quiet shifting in the front and Ed watches as she lifts a paper coffee cup and sets it into Zsasz’s outstretched hand. She doesn’t acknowledge Oswald’s statement. “I’m not sure why I bother  _ talking  _ when I know I’ll just be ignored.”

Zsasz doesn’t answer for her, given his intense focus on the coffee. “This a peace offering?” She glances over at him for a moment and switches the car into drive, pulling out onto the main road and leaving the Manor grounds. “Thought so.”

“Some would say she’s disloyal,” Oswald adds, sounding miffed.

“Nah, she’s just the smartest one.” He takes another drink. “Shit I’ll never drink other coffee again.”

“We’re driving here,” Ed says over Zsasz’s endless praise for Tawny’s coffee, which Ed has to admit does smell very good even at a distance. “One of the student lots should be fairly full now that class is in session.”

Neither of the two up front respond, but Zsasz does take the slip of paper and flashes it at Gang for a few seconds. They drive in silence, headlights still off, and somehow it’s comfortable. There’s a familiarity to it, and he leans against Oswald for a bit, savoring the calm while it lasts.

“Gordon drag you into Blackgate?” Gang blinks twice, and Ed can hear the leather of the steering wheel protest as her grip tightens. “Don’t hold it against the guy. Did you give ‘em hell?”

“Solitary.”

“Because you gave ‘em hell right?” Ed watches in the rear view mirror as she raises one eyebrow, somehow smirking without bothering to move her mouth. Zsasz glances back at the two of them, grinning. “She’s a keeper. Best shot I know.”

“You act like I haven’t known this woman for at least ten years, which I suppose I can’t fault you for given the lack of  _ communication _ .” Oswald sits forward, but he doesn’t dislodge Ed. “Can I get a verbal confirmation on those weapons just this once?”

“Non-lethal,” she says. It’s enough, and Oswald visibly relaxes.

The following silence no longer feels comfortable; there’s a steady sense of anticipation building in Ed’s chest, and even though his hands are shaking he’s actually feeling rather calm. Or maybe focused is a better descriptor. Ed tunes out any quiet chattering from the front seat and catalogs the different defense items he’s shoved into his many jacket pockets.

Smoke bombs, ten. EMPs, three, with a wire kit to attach them to any power supply. Lock picks, reusable, and numerous. He didn’t bother to count. Taser, for personal use. And of course he’s brought his darts, which he had to rescue from the GCPD himself on their way back to the Manor. He’d done an excellent job of convincing Jim that the officer’s must have thrown them out so he couldn’t get ahold of them again.

She parks the car in the back half of a student lot, wedged between a large pickup and some beat up two door. Ed gets out first, and he’s practically  _ vibrating  _ as he stands by the trunk. Gang opens it up and produces two weapons, both small enough to tuck into coats. Zsasz accepts something that looks suspiciously like a pistol and tucks it into his jacket.

“We’re going to break into the library. Doors closed an hour ago, and the staff should already be gone. I’ve highlighted a few key areas based on old newspaper articles,” he pulls out a small printout of the library map and points to a stairwell in the half stacks. “This is the most out of the way spot, and with it being on a sub floor it’s the strongest candidate for some sort of secret entrance.”

He looks up and finds that only Oswald is looking at his map, their supposed security detail more interested in Gang as she aims at what Ed can only assume is some sort of nearby bird, miming shots and making a very soft, nearly inaudible ‘pow’ as she does.

“If you’re both  _ finished _ ,” Oswald snaps at them, and they give him their attention, but not all of it, “we’re here to do a  _ job _ . Ed?”

“It should be simple reconnaissance,” Ed says, folding his printout map and putting a hand around his lock picking kit. He’ll need to do this as cleanly as possible. “I must admit, I don’t know what we’ll find.”

“Which is why we’re  _ here _ ,” Oswald assures him, clapping one hand on his shoulder and gesturing for him to lead the way. He leans in close to Ed’s ear and whispers, “I have a weapon of my own. He won’t get near you.”

There’s a release of pressure around Ed’s ribs, and he nods. “This way.” He points over to the back entrance to the library and begins walking along the sidewalk, avoiding streetlamps and trying to maintain cover among the trees along the path. Three sets of steps, two average and one hobbled, follow him along, and he feels a rush once he reaches the door and kneels down in front of the lock. Simple tumblers, no obvious wiring or alarms; this door shouldn’t have any sort of alert system, but Ed also pulls out a single use EMP from his pocket in case it does.

He’s had plenty of practice with the aged locks on the library doorknobs. The door swings open without resistance once the lock is picked, and Ed wipes the knob with a soft cloth. “Avoid the front doors at all cost. Unless it’s changed there are metal detectors.”

“You got it boss,” Zsasz pulls on a pair of leather gloves and Gang does the same. “Where to?”

“They’re unofficially known as the stacks. They’re in the West end of the library.” He doesn’t mention the small lounge on the third floor, but he remembers plenty of nights holed up there past library hours, trying to read by flashlight and on edge because he’s been told countless times to stop spending the night here. “The first floor tends to echo, so silence is best.”

There’s been a large shift on the first floor he hadn’t accounted for; at some point the library’s converted the old reference section to a computer lab, all the screens are dark, but several of the towers are still blinking. It would be easy enough to get onto any of them, and maybe someone’s left their login session up, thinking someone would turn the computer off instead of snooping. He focuses on navigating the change in the floorplan for now, but it’s something to consider if any of the cases from Jim are campus related.

Someone’s changed the plaque outside the stacks, but the door is still as old and unable to properly lock as it always was. Ed slips on a pair of his own gloves and slowly opens the door, wary of any squeaking hinges and regretting his forgetfulness. How difficult would it have been to remember some sort of lubricant for the hinges? But it doesn’t end up mattering, because the squeak never happens, and they’re walking through the dark space, aided only by a tiny flashlight Ed’s using.

“Try down here,” he points the light at a stairwell leading to the sub basement, and the four of them make their way down the half story of steps in a small cluster. Ed begins feeling along the walls, touching seams between cinder block and mortar, but nothing obvious jumps out at him. “She talked about  _ burning _ \- ah,” he laughs to himself and opens the door to the lowest stack, “what kind of temptation would there be if it was out here?”

“Care to enlighten the rest of the group?” Oswald whispers. Ed shakes his head, holding a finger to his mouth and switching off his light. Above them, maybe even in the next stack up, he can hear a single set of footsteps. Gang and Zsasz assume defensive stances, but he waves them off and starts feeling along the wall. It’s nearly pitch black, but the soft emergency light from the stairwell casts enough light to get him about halfway into the stack, and he shines the light briefly to let the rest of them follow.

“Security. They work their way up from the bottom.” Harder to slip away undetected.

“You know an awful lot about the library’s operations,” Oswald comments. “Where are you leading us?”

“Bridget Pike mentioned books, and wanting to burn them. The first floor is half computers and copiers now, and the few rooms with bookshelves are out of the way when entering or exiting.” He shrugs. “It’s just a hypothesis.”

But it pans out. Deep in the back of the lowest stack Ed finds an unmarked door with a simple key and tumbler lock. It isn’t necessarily out of place, but the single shine of what he determines is a camera lens  _ is _ . “Here,” he mouths, and he points up at the lens as he’s standing right underneath it, hoping the image’s arc is fixed at one angle. There isn’t any sound from the other side of the door even when Ed kneels down to pick the lock. As he stands up, lock successfully opened, Gang shoves him aside without a word, standing at the ready.

“You really shouldn’t shoot anyone insi-” she kicks the door open, interrupting his warning, and Ed flattens himself and Oswald to the wall. There’s a single deafening shot of a very  _ real  _ weapon, and a measured exhale followed by two rapid shots, a pained wail from  _ whoever  _ is inside, and a short delay before the real gun goes off again, and silence.

Ed’s eyes flutter open and he tries to quiet his breathing. Oswald is still underneath his left arm, touching his hand and pulling Ed away from the wall. He watches for a few beats to make sure no guard is going to come down and join the firefight, but the stack remains empty. It’s not necessarily a good sign, but he’ll take it for now.

“Stomach?” Zsasz asks, leaning in, intense but eerily calm, and Ed touches his own stomach for a moment before he sees the red on Gang’s stomach, and hears the pained, rasping breaths she’s taking.

“Liver,” she answers, feeling the spot, applying pressure and leaning against the doorframe before standing up straight. There’s a tenseness in her jaw from the effort. She pushes the door back open and the dim lighting inside illuminates the downed guard. It isn’t campus security, and he definitely lost the fight against Gang. She shoves the gun she must’ve taken from the guard into Zsasz’s hands and steps inside.

“She shouldn’t be walking,” Ed says.

“She’s tough,” Zsasz says. “Probably’ll keep going till she drops.”

Not even two steps later she buckles, and Zsasz rushes in, one arm holding her up and the other holding out a gun at what Ed learns is a relatively small room. It’s no wonder how it went so unnoticed. His old loft might’ve been bigger than this. “It’s a records room.”

And oh, this is more than he could have ever hoped for, because he  _ knew  _ there was no way Strange wasn’t keeping careful notes somewhere, but he never dreamed of actually finding them. He moves past Zsasz and over to a filing cabinet, which when opened is  _ full  _ of files. He’s nearly drooling.

“Bring her to Selina,” Oswald says somewhere behind him. “I think we can take it from here.”

“How’re you getting out?”

“We have  _ feet _ ,” Oswald says, “ _ now go _ . I can speak from personal experience when I tell you just how severe this kind of wound can be.”

Ed feels a dark little thought try to worm its way into his main focus, but he shoves it away and opens the next cabinet over. He’ll have plenty of time to dwell later. For now he needs to prioritize.

An uneven set of footsteps leaves, and he jumps when Oswald touches his back. “I’m not angry,” he says softly, right in Ed’s ear, and Ed turns away from a file labeled ‘Kyle, Selina’ and focuses on Oswald. “Honestly, the man takes nothing seriously.”

“These are Strange’s files on us, on everyone I suppose.” He pulls out a stack of files and hands them to Oswald, favoring their little team back at the Manor and leaving files he can’t spare to carry with so little warning. “I don’t have enough time to look at everything.”

“We’ll take what we can, and  _ quickly _ .” Oswald makes Ed turn away from the files and gestures to the dim room. “I don’t see a monitor around here, which means your little find outside-”

“Lead’s somewhere else,” he finishes, and Ed swears. “Check the rest of the drawers for our names.”

He finds more. Ed pulls a thick file labeled ‘Fries, Nora’ from the next cabinet over and handles it carefully, adding it to their stack and moving along to the next. Many of the remaining files are of Gotham officials; mayors, chiefs, there are even several for the psychiatrists out at Arkham. Ed can only imagine just what Strange has deemed necessary to keep versus the information kept just to himself, but he still pulls Lee’s file regardless.

A single, jogging pair of footsteps drags his attention away from the records and he looks to Oswald, very aware just how heavy a box of files is when they  _ aren’t  _ trying to run, but Oswald looks calm, and he holds a small pistol in his hand. “What are the odds this is just security?”

“Poor,” Ed says. He doesn’t have the time to properly crunch any numbers. “Oswald we can’t just  _ fight _ our way out of here.”

“I’ve overcome worse obstacles. Stay down,” he stands at the ready, pointing at the door, and a hand up in surrender comes through. “Victor I  _ told you _ -”

“You wanted me to get my head out of my ass boss.” He holds out his arms and Ed drops the file box into his hands without question, and takes a moment to grab a few more files at random, hoping they’ll be useful. “Job comes first.”


	31. Chapter 31

“So, you got these from  _ Strange _ ,” Jim confirms.

Ed nods emphatically. “From a secret room in the stacks on campus. There’s more down there, but we weren’t prepared for the room to be a records storage facility. We took what we could carry given some, unforeseen circumstances. The room was relatively small, six by ten I think. There was only one guard and a single camera overlooking the area around the door. Stealing them seemed like the only option.”

“You took these files for good reason,” Bruce says as he flips through one for himself, Selina, Fries and his wife. He sucks in a breath when he finds one for Richard, thin from the outside and sparse on the inside but it exists all the same. “I only wish you had told us so we could have provided aid.”

Ed leafs through a file of his own, one with his name on it as it turns out, and he hums thoughtfully. “Sorry, you said something.”

“You can’t keep running around on your own, Ed,” Jim says. “And I brought this for Zsasz.” He sets a thick ankle monitor on the dining room table. “Fool me once.”

“He didn’t kill the guard,” Ed says. “And his weapon was non-lethal.”

“If anyone can make a non lethal weapon lethal it’s Zsasz,” Jim says. “No more dragging him around. He’s not even supposed to be  _ here _ .”

“What kind of range does that have?” Bruce asks. “I assume he can still access all the floors of my home.”

“And some of the grounds within the fence,” Jim adds. “It was self defense, I  _ get  _ that, but I can’t have anyone in Gotham seeing him running around free when he’s supposed to be in a private facility. And Ed,” Jim sighs very tiredly and sets down a folder he’d been reading. Lee’s folder. “What do you think you’re doing acting alone like this?”

“I  _ thought  _ you’d be thrilled someone finally found a lead,” Ed says. He closes his folder and moves to take it with him, along with one labeled ‘Cobblepot, Oswald’. “With this information I might be able to piece together more leads. Just think of this as  _ my  _ case if you need any excuses down at the GCPD.”

Ed leaves the room and Bruce lets the silence linger while Jim clenches his fists. Eventually his face returns to a normal skin tone and the vein along his temple stops pulsing.

“They want a reaction from you.”

“They  _ want  _ us to find Barbara and Strange. Hell, we all do.”

“I’ll talk to him later. For now we need to address this,” Bruce says, handing over Richard’s folder to Jim. “I didn’t read anything, but the fact that this exists isn’t good.”

“Jesus he’s just a kid.” Jim flips open the folder and holds it out so the two of them can read it. “He has his  _ class  _ schedule.”

“What do we do?” He can’t just uproot a teenager and his parents from their lives and expect his family to go along with it just because Bruce is rich. “We taught him some self defense but Strange’s level of influence and power is far beyond what Richard can handle.”

“Part of me thinks we should have another talk with him.” Jim sighs and hands over the folder so he can rub at his eyes. “And another part of me worries that’ll just make him want to act because he’s sixteen.”

“I don’t think he’d be quite that reckless.” Jim gives him a very pained look. “Are you basing his behavior on my teenage years or just intuition?”

“Little of both I guess.”

“He isn’t like me.”

“He idolizes you. That’s more worrisome than him being your miniature.”

“That’s fair.” Bruce flips through the pages again, skimming Richard’s schedule and, Bruce notes with a shiver, the performance schedule for the circus. “We can’t leave him in the dark. Strange bothered to learn about his day to day activities. It means he recognizes that Richard is significant in my life.” Although compared to some of the other files Richard’s is very scarce. It’s enough to follow him and learn more, and if Richard were woefully unprepared it would maybe be enough to kidnap him, but Richard’s proven himself to be lucky if nothing else. “If Strange ever tried to take him I’d have to try to help.”

“You know that would be a trap.”

“Maybe knowing it’s a trap means I could overcome it,” although he doesn’t feel very confident in this claim.

“How about we make sure it doesn’t come to that.” Jim gathers up all the files and starts putting them back in the file box Ed left on the table. “We can look at these more later. For now I think we need to take a look at this secret room Ed’s found.”

-

There’s something off-putting about moving through the city as the Batman when the sun is still out, so Bruce forgoes his usual armor in favor of a bulletproof vest, sunglasses, and a hoodie. Central campus is bustling on the weekend, especially with the weather being so fair. Students are more concerned with their games and friends to pay the Commissioner and Bruce Wayne any attention, and it only takes a few minutes to get into the building and move through the first floor over to the stacks.

“There weren’t any reports about a death on campus last night,” Jim says. “So either no one came down here again afterwards or someone was busy cleaning up last night.”

“I’m afraid the latter is more likely.” There isn’t any police tape, no one stopping them from moving through the stacks to the back wall, and Bruce only takes notice of a small swipe of blood on the floor because he knows to look out for one. It’s probably degraded, but he takes the time to pull a sample vial from his belt, which he hid under his sweatshirt for exactly this reason, and he seals the small swab he’s able to get in a small bag.

Tiny warning bells are going off in Bruce’s head, and they start getting louder when Jim is able to open the door without any resistance. The door swings in, a bit creaky and uneven on its hinges, and he pulls a heavy weight flashlight out of his pocket to illuminate the room. Bruce pulls off his shades and blinks a few times to clear his vision.

It’s empty. Not just of people, of anything. If Ed hadn’t shown them the files he took Bruce might not have believed that anything was ever here aside from a few carpenter ants. Bruce takes out his own light and examines some of the corners of the room for anything the clean up crew may have missed. He finds nothing.

“He cleaned house fast,” Jim sighs. “So much for finding a lead.”

“You can’t find out who built this room?”

“Doubtful. Hell, a room this small can be written off as an error in the blueprints.” Jim taps a toe against the wall the room shares with the stacks. “See this seam at the top of this wall? It was probably added in long after the building itself was built.”

“So he repurposed a pre-existing storage room,” Bruce posits, and he examines a tiny hole near the top right corner of the door. “This must have been for the camera.”

“Whoever scrubbed last night got everything. I think we need to focus on what we do have.”

“The files.” Bruce nods. “I'll begin reviewing the information with Ed once I return to the Manor.”

“And I'll see what I can find about this building, see if the construction company raises any red flags.” Jim runs his hand across the smooth stone wall and shakes his head. “What kind of manpower does he have? It has to be more than Barbara and her goons.”

“I don’t know. There's also still Crane, and maybe we'll learn about more rogues from the files. Strange has to have been operating under the radar for some time now, and with full access to Arkham's inmates.”

“Not really a pleasant thought, although there haven’t been any unusual transfers before or after he tried to transfer Zsasz. At least nothing that hasn’t gone through an approval process.” Jim holds the door for the storage room open and Bruce exits into the stacks. “I’ll get an investigator to give it another pass just to be sure.”

“When we review the files we’ll keep an eye out for anything tying any of this to Strange. Even if we can’t find him having some hard evidence that he’s committed a crime would help mobilize the police against him.” Bruce slips his shades back on his face as they exit the stacks and move back into the main floor of the library. He closes his hand around the small bag containing the blood sample, contemplating giving it to Jim to run at the GCPD, but as much as he wants to trust them he can’t help but trust Ed more, so he keeps it for himself.

-

“You really shouldn’t keep trying to rile Jim up about this case,” Bruce says before Ed flips open the first folder. Ed freezes, and he glares up at Bruce. “I’m not trying to diminish the good you’ve done by finding these, but the room was already cleaned out by the time Jim and I got there. If you’d brought us along we might’ve recovered more of the files.”

“Why did you decide to become the Batman?” Ed asks, flipping open the folder with his name on the tab, refusing to look Bruce in the eye. “What motivates a person to take that path?”

“The city needed a hero, someone to stop the rogues from taking over.”

“Because you couldn’t trust the GCPD to be that figure,” Ed says. He flips past the first page of his file. “He switches between short and longhand in some of the notes.”

“You can trust us, Ed.”

“Having trust in someone isn’t the same as having faith in them.” Ed pulls out a piece of paper from the file and slides it over to Bruce. “But because I  _ do  _ trust you this is a complete list of every hideout Oswald and I have.” Bruce scans the dozen or so properties on the page, including the one that’s been burned down. The file even reflects the destruction. “He knows them all.”

“And he knows you’re here,” Bruce sighs, staring down at his own address. “I suppose we already knew that.”

“Good thing he has too many irons in the fire. Thoughtful of him to have written everything down.”

“Not everyone has your eidetic memory,” Bruce says.

“There’s merit in recording information.” He takes out his recorder and sets it on the table between them. “September 10th, the files recovered appear to have a mix of general information and more in depth medical details.”

“Medical details?”

“Relating to psychiatry.” Ed gestures vaguely at the folder and begins flipping through the papers. “Optimizing his process, that sort of thing.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Ed looks up at him, grateful, and he closes his file. “Anything useful?”

“None of the notes have any sort of indicator that they’re his.” He flips open another file. “It isn’t that strong a lead.”

_ Strong enough to make me worry _ , Bruce thinks. He picks up Richard’s file and opens it up. What he finds here will determine what he does moving forward.

He moves the class schedule aside and skims the performance schedule for the circus. It feels odd to bother copying this sort of information down when it’s freely available to the public. Bruce flips it over and back again, and he holds it up to the light, but there’s nothing else, just the performance calendar. “Can you look at this?”

Ed accepts the paper and nods, turning it over and scanning the page. His frown becomes more pronounced the further down he goes. “Are you going to the circus?”

“It was in Richard’s file,” Bruce says. “There isn’t much, but he has his class schedule and this calendar. I was wondering if there’s some sort of secret message anywhere, or maybe dates that have been circled or highlighted, but there’s nothing.”

“Sometimes a reference is helpful to have,” Ed says. “Although I agree that the lack of additions is rather strange.” He gets up and walks towards the kitchen, and Bruce follows, Richard’s file in hand. When he gets there Ed is standing by the stove, holding the paper well above the burner, which Bruce learns is turned on once he’s standing by Ed’s side. “This may take some time if I don’t want it to burn.”

“Invisible ink?” Bruce asks, and Ed nods. He pulls himself up to sit on the counter. “Why would he bother when they’re his?”

“I’m not expecting any results.” Ed shakes out one hand and holds the paper a bit higher. “What else is there?”

“Almost nothing. Brief profiles of his parents, some personal notes about his abilities. He might’ve observed one of their acts to get a general idea of his physical ability.” He sets the folder on the counter beside him and turns back around, wishing he’d brought a few of the other files over with him. “Unless you find anything on that paper I think it’s preliminary at best.”

“Given Richard’s lack of involvement it seems sufficient.” Ed turns off the oven and shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Bruce watches Ed walk back over to the table, and he waits until Ed returns with more of the files before he asks, “sufficient for what?” Ed grimaces, and Bruce’s fear is confirmed. “You think this is enough to try to kidnap him? Richard knows how to defend himself.”

“I think Strange has enough information to do so,” Ed says, “and I can't imagine him not being able to outsmart a teenager. I know that isn’t terribly comforting.”

It isn’t, but now that one of them has acknowledged the worst case scenario he knows he needs to give Richard some sort of warning. He doesn’t need details, but he needs  _ something _ so he’s not reckless, or at least not as reckless as he usually is. “I’ll speak with him.”

Ed presses his palms together and touches them to his mouth, then points at Richard’s file on the counter. “How does he know he even has an association with you?”

Bruce takes a deep, shuddering breath, and he shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Except maybe he does. He looks at Ed, at the lines in his forehead and the twitching quirk of his lips, and he knows Ed has to be thinking the same thing. It was that night at the warehouse. No one revealed Richard’s name, but how difficult would it be for Strange to have facial recognition technology and even one security camera? Bruce wasn’t there, too busy trying to overcome his own mind at the time, but Ed was there, and he’s the reason Richard was there at all.

He starts saying, “I’m not blaming you-” at the same time as Ed says, “Nora would have thawed alone and  _ died  _ there-”

Ed clears his throat, and Bruce nods to him so he’ll speak. “It could have been handled better, I suppose. Hindsight is rather illuminating.”

“You saved both their lives by getting Nora out of there.” Ed looks down at the floor, blinking slowly, not agreeing but also not trying to refute Bruce’s claim. “Because she was safe Victor was able to break free for good.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t share the sentiment.” Ed ignores the pleading look Bruce sends his way and buries his nose in another folder. Bruce lets him win the argument for now and takes a folder for himself: ‘Jones, Waylon’. Bruce shivers. “Are you planning on leaving to see Richard today?”

“I’m going to try to catch him at the end of one of his practices. He seems to have a bit more free time when they aren’t performing. Why?”

“I’d recommend a stop to Arkham Island.” Ed hands over a sheet of paper from the file he’s holding, and Bruce skims past the words ‘Arkham’ and ‘greenhouse’ to the phrase ‘cave just off the island’s south west end’. “I’d bring a box truck if you can. Ivy’s amassed quite the collection of plants out there.”

-

He goes to Ivy first. Bruce navigates his boat (a yacht with plenty of space for all of Ivy’s previous cargo) towards Arkham Island, being careful to not take the most direct route. A small speedboat can hide much easier, and go much faster, than his yacht can, and he doesn't want to have to answer too many questions if he can help it.

“Have you seen Ivy in person recently?” Jim asks from his seat near the side of the watercraft. He's been a bit seasick again today.

“It's been some time, but Selina comes here on occasion.” And she would have mentioned it if Ivy didn't seem like herself. Bruce extended the offer to come to her as well, but she refused. She never did tell him why.

The vines haven't changed since Bruce was last here, but they latch onto the side of his boat with startling strength. Bruce uses the greeting Selina taught him to let Ivy know that they're friendly, and the vines unfurl into an organic ladder.

“Once we're up there she should be able to move most of her things using the vines.” Bruce pulls on some climbing gloves and grabs into the thick vines, which quivers a bit under his grip but otherwise feels sturdy.

“You know, when I became Commissioner I thought I'd be at a desk way more than this,” Jim shouts up to Bruce, barely audible over the strong winds.

“You'd get too bored,” Bruce says back. “We're alike in that regard,” he says to himself. He's not hunting for every excuse to get out of work anymore but climbing up to get Ivy is definitely more exciting than sitting at his desk and reading memos from the department heads.

Bruce may have remembered his gloves this time, and a pair for Jim, but he's made another, more critical error. Ivy's still acquiring plants, and the collection Bruce remembers has nearly doubled, and he isn't even in the main room yet.

“You've got to be kidding,” Jim mutters. “This isn't going to fit on a yacht.”

“I'll explain the situation to her. She'll be reasonable.” He hopes. Bruce moves into the center of the main cavern and turns until he finds the hammock along one of the rock wall. Ivy is swinging gently, skimming yet another plant catalog, and Bruce clears his throat to get her attention. “Hello Ivy.”

“Didn't expect company,” she says, still focused on the pages. She tosses it aside after another minute with an exaggerated sigh. “They're all so disappointing.”

“The magazines?”

“There is  _ still  _ that horrible fruit salad tree for sale.”

“Maybe you could start writing letters,” Bruce says. He motions for Ivy to join him on the ground and he holds out a hand to help her, which she accepts. “Ivy I have some news regarding Strange. Something you might not like.”

She frowns at Bruce and walks over to her trays of seedlings. “What did he do now?”

“I'll get to that in a moment. Ed was able to recover some of his files, including one about you.” She's no longer looking at Bruce but he assumes she's still listening while teasing a finger over the tiny plants. “He had a list of prior locations in the file, and among that list was this cave.” She snaps her attention back over to Bruce. “I'm afraid you can't stay here anymore. It isn't safe.”

She crosses her arms and scans the room, then she startles, and Bruce turns around in time to watch Ivy trap Jim in some of her vines, his arms and legs stuck mid stride. “You couldn't have mentioned that I'm here too?”

“Sorry,” Bruce says, and Ivy releases Jim from her hold. “We have an issue.”

“Jesus,” Jim scans the entire room, face becoming more and more stricken as he takes in the vast number of plants Ivy's crammed into the space. “Okay, I know I already said it, but there's  _ no way  _ we're getting all of this in one trip.”

“What do you mean we're not getting it all?” Ivy shouts. “I'm not leaving without my babies!”

“Ivy-” Bruce has to duck as a vine lashes out at him, and he moves into a defensive stance. “Ivy we're not asking you to abandon them, please,” he pleads, but softly, calmly, hoping to impart some of that to her. “I know they're important to you.”

Ivy's shoulders are heaving from exertion and anger. She glares at the two of them, vines still moving but less targeted and more of a frustrated flailing. One of the lights near the middle of the room gets caught in the crossfire and knocks over after a vine thrashes too close. The bulbs shatter and the light sputters a few times and goes out.

“We don't have to take the lights. We'll find you somewhere sunny to stay.” Bruce looks back at Jim and the weary look on his face. “And we'll come back for a second trip if we need to, I promise.”

“You're not just lying to get me to say yes are you?”

“Of course not. Right Jim?” He turns around and sees Jim pulling out his phone. “Are you calling for more help?”

“I'm calling Lee.” He puts the phone up to his ear. “She was going to make some fancy, something, for dinner. I'm going to tell her to wait.” He looks up at the ceiling of the cave. “Won't be able to eat for a week at this rate.”

“I never knew you got so seasick.”

“Neither did I. I think Zsasz screwed something up in my head.” He rubs his eyes and moves away from them to the mouth of the cave. “Lee? Yeah, hi, look,” his voice fades as he exits the cavern.

“We should start prioritizing your plants,” Bruce tells Ivy, but she's already back over by her seedlings, cooing to them about their new home.

-

It's nearly ten that night before Bruce and Jim finish moving Ivy to one of the old farm houses just beyond the property line of Wayne Manor. It's been abandoned, but it's not decrepit.  Some of the wood is old and a few of the stairs leading up to the front door are beginning to splinter and crack, nothing a bit of effort and time couldn't fix. He purchased the land as soon as it became available last month, and he put some serious consideration to demolishing the house to extend the semi-wooded area around his home, but now he's glad he didn't, because Ivy is already mostly settled after filling literally every room in the single story, two bedroom home with her plants.

“You shouldn't be bothered out here, but you're close enough to the Manor that we could come help you if you need anything.”

“I'm going to grow  _ so many  _ plants,” she squeals. “Here I'll start a little collection of orchids, and over here I'll-”

“Ivy,” Bruce interrupts, “I'm sorry, but I can't stay long.”

She pouts. “You aren't going to throw me a housewarming party?”

“I need to go across town still. If you want I'm sure Selina would come over.”

She crosses her arms and cocks her hip to one side. “What’re you doing across town this late?”

“Just checking in on a friend.” He waves politely as he exits through the front door. “I'll see you again soon Ivy.”

-

There wasn't a performance tonight now that school is back in session, but the tent is still lit up as bright as ever, and inside Bruce can see a few of the acrobats hard at work up on the tightropes and swings. If feels like it's too late for Richard to still be up, but just as Bruce is about to leave he spots bright red and green and yellow high above on the platform. When Bruce looks a bit closer he can tell Richard is fading a bit from the way his head is drooping, and the next thing Richard does- after someone older than him swings over and ruffles his hair- is begin to climb down the ladder for the platform.

Bruce moves away from the mouth of the tent and stands in the shadows near the entrance. After a short wait he hears the sound of someone treading across dirt and gravel, and Richard appears. He starts to yawn, but he sees Bruce about halfway through and the sound gets caught in his throat. “Ho-” he coughs twice, and glances back into the tent. “What're you doing here?” He whispers. “Is there trouble?”

Bruce is beginning to realize that giving Richard a bit of warning would have been thoughtful. He clears his throat. “I'm sorry I startled you.”

“I wasn't startled! Just,” he bites his lip, “surprised. I don't have my goggles. Is that bad?”

Bruce isn't actually hiding either except for standing in the darker shadows. Richard has the benefit of a thick pair of plastic frames, and it's relatively dark out. “Not when you're not on patrol. And you aren't  _ going  _ to be, I just wanted to check up on you.”

“I'm learning to ride a unicycle on the tightropes,” he says, puffing up with pride. “Well, I guess it's only ten feet up for now, but soon I'll be all the way up on the main rope!”

“That's amazing,” Bruce complements him. He's fairly certain he wouldn't be able to do that without something being broken. “I'm afraid I'm here on somewhat serious business though. Have you noticed anything off recently? Odd people loitering? Strange or unusual behaviors?”

“It's the circus,” Richard says. “Well, I guess  _ you  _ showing up is kind of strange.”

“Fair enough,” Bruce chuckles. “Listen carefully to what I'm going to tell you.” He wants to kneel in close, to make sure Richard is taking this seriously, but he's not wearing his shades. Richard looks like he's dead on his feet, but Bruce has faith in him. He understands plenty about taking things seriously. One wrong move while he's working with his family could be disastrous. “You remember that man Professor Strange, right? The one I told you about?” Richard nods. “He knows you helped me. I want you to be  _ extremely  _ careful. Tell your family where you're going, or maybe don't go at all if you'd be going alone. I don't mean to scare you,” although the wide-eyed fear tells Bruce he's definitely taking this seriously, “I just want you to be safe.”

“I have that thing you gave me,” he says. “The tracker thing.”

“It's a distress signal. And that's good. Make sure to keep it with you, and if you need to ever use it, keep an eye out for myself or Jim. We're the only ones that get the signal.”

Richard scuffs his foot against the dirt path, and he hugs his arms around his torso. “Do you think we'll be okay? Cuz I can try to convince my family to do a traveling show again.”

“It’s probably better to not split up our group anymore than we already have.”

“Right okay,” he tugs on one side of his glasses and keeps his other arm over his stomach. “Should we maybe, I don't know, do some sort of check in? Like a phone call?”

“That's,” he pauses, “a very good idea, actually. If I ever don't answer your call be sure to call Jim instead. I'll pass along our plan to him.” Bruce smiles to try and reassure Richard. “And if we ever need your help I'll be sure to call.”

-

For the first time in weeks Bruce has trouble getting himself out the door and over to Wayne Enterprises, but he's still at his desk before nine. Still, it feels like a personal failure, albeit a mild one. To compensate for his tardiness he takes his lunch at his desk, forking bites of a large Cobb salad into his mouth as he reads over a few proposals and upcoming event ideas.

He doesn't consider the possible negatives of staying at his desk while his secretary goes to lunch, and that's why Bruce finds himself with an unexpected guests while he has a mouth full of salad. He swallows the bit before he can finish chewing. “Silver, I didn't expect to see you.”

She stands near the door, stepping side to side as she scans his office. Silver looks over her shoulder into the empty hallway and turns back to Bruce. She looks uncertain, but steels herself. “I think we need to talk.”

Bruce nods. “Okay.” He gets up from his desk and strides over, putting one hand on her shoulder and smiling. “How about some coffee?”

He doesn't actually get himself a cup, but he does buy Silver her usual order and two flaky croissants for himself. This is just a conversation between friends. It doesn't have to feel like a confession.

Bruce unlocks the executives’ private room and they sit on a pair of plush chairs near the window. He wants them both to feel comfortable and relaxed, at least as much as they're able. He'll be candid with her, and as honest as possible as long as her safety isn't put at risk. It's only right after she guessed his identity.

“I wasn't sure if you wanted to see me,” she says first.

Bruce blinks. “What gave you that idea?”

“That night, you said to maintain a fifty foot radius? I thought you wanted space.”

“I was being literal. The doors to the event happening weren't fully sealed.”

Silver laughs then, and has to set her cup aside so she doesn't spill. “I feel really foolish.”

“I should have called.”

“I don't know if I would have wanted to talk before now. It's a lot to think about.” She picks her cup back up and starts running her finger over the edge of the lid. “Has it always been you?”

“Yes,” he nods. “Although I have had plenty of help.”

“Why do you do it?” She doesn't sound accusatory, just sad. “It's dangerous, right?”

“At first I wanted to find my parents’ killer,” he says. He wasn't visually the Batman at the time but it all feels like one long, continuous state of being. “But at some point that wasn't enough. Gotham was being overrun by crime and corruption. The few good people still around were buried in red tape and regulations, unwilling or unable to cause enough of a stir to make real, long lasting changes. I started combating the rogues of Gotham and the city began to come alive again.”

They talk for the better part of an hour. Silver ranges from obvious concern to something resembling fondness, and Bruce finds being candid much easier than he originally imagined. She asks several questions, some of which are more important than others, ranging from has he broken any bones to how did he design the cowl, but he answers them all with equal levels of honesty and sincerity.

“Aren't the rogues getting a little old? I remember a lot of them already being adults when we were teenagers.”

“Some of them are retired. I'm actually friends with several ex rogues,” he says. “A few of them saved my life.” He gets quiet for a minute. Silver reached across the gap between their chairs and grabs his hand. “I haven't been making as much progress on my current case as I'd like.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Nothing life threatening.” He squeezes her hand once, feeling how small her hands are, but they aren't fragile, just petite. “Have you ever taken self defense?”

“Are you asking me to join you?”

“No,” he laughs, and she squeezes his hand again before releasing it. “No, I just could tell you've developed a strong grip.”

“Well, after my uncle,” she huffs, “well you met him. After he tried to take over Gotham I left for awhile. I was in Europe for a few months, but I missed the city. When I came back my aunt told me to take this kickboxing class, so I did. And then I did another. And now I teach a course when I'm not planning an event.”

“You teach self defense,” he reiterates.

“If I could do it all the time I would. I love my job but, well I can see why you want to help people, even if your way is a little weird and creepy.”

“Thank you.”

“What about after the baby is born?” The concern is back stronger than before.

“I'll be more careful. Alfred and I are developing some new gadgets and tools for me to use that will allow me to still stop rogues, but at a safer distance. And I'm no longer being called in for regular crimes, but unless all the rogues are rehabilitated and no new ones appear I don't think I'll ever truly be done.”

“Does that scare you?”

“It's kept me up some nights,” he says, “but I'm doing it for my child as much as I'm doing it for the rest of the city. I want Gotham to be a safe place for everyone.”

“So you'll never really stop,” she says.

“I suppose not, unless I also retire.” He shrugs. “It’s preferable to desk work.”

They're just settling into something silent and comfortable when Bruce's phone starts buzzing, then stops. “Sorry.” He picks it up, and finds a text instead of a phone call.

_ Emergency at Manor _ .  _ -E.Nygma _

“I have to go,” he blinks down at the message, willing a second one to come, but it never does. “Emergency. You can stay here if you like. The door locks automatically.”

“Bruce?” She calls to him as he reaches the door. He turns back to her. “Be careful.”

“I will.” He nods, and he's barreling out the door towards his car.


	32. Chapter 32

_ Wayne Manor, September 11th, morning _

“Personal note,” Ed rasps, and he clears his throat, “I may have reached the point in my life where I can no longer sleep on a couch for a full night without suffering some foreseeable consequences.”

Most notably, his back hurts, but he knew his sleep wouldn’t be as restful outside of the guest room. The sun room is pleasant with the windows open, and the cool breeze overnight kept him from getting too warm, but he couldn’t comfortably lie on his side without his leg protesting.

He’s a bit concerned his back is going to give out if he tries to actually get up from the couch, but he doesn’t have the luxury of time these days, so he sets his recorder on the coffee table and steels himself against any twinges he’s going to feel. He pushes himself up using the back of the couch and groans, rubbing his back and trying to clear his vision before he attempts to stand.

“You look like you fared about as well as I did,” Oswald says, just a blur across the room until Ed slips on his glasses. He walks over with a single mug of something in hand and offers it to Ed. “I made some of your tea blend.”

“Thank you.” He takes a long drink from the mug and holds it close so he can smell the tea. “How was the reading room?”

“If I was supposed to read all night instead of sleep then it was wonderful. I highly recommend it.” He holds himself up on the arm of the couch and slowly lowers himself onto the seat beside Ed. “I will never give up my bed again. Zsasz better be grateful.”

“Selina gave me an update last night. It seems she’s on the mend.” He takes another drink of tea and holds the mug out for Oswald, but he refuses. “Gang should have most, if not all, of her normal functionality back in a few weeks.”

“And Bruce doesn't know about our little guest?”

“If he does he didn’t tell me.” Ed sets his mug on the coffee table for later. “Unless I'm mistaken we should be able to take our bed back soon.”

“Good, I can only offer so much hospitality at the cost of my physical health.” Oswald sighs. “Was I ever cursed in the past and wrote it off as nonsense?”

“Uh,” Ed scrambles for something to say in response, but Oswald continues before he can.

“Because I’m starting to feel like there’s some sort of,” he groans. “A voodoo doll. I feel like I’m one of those.”

“You’re going to have to elaborate.”

“ _ Your  _ leg.  _ Gang’s  _ stomach,” he sighs and puts a hand to the too familiar scar on his own stomach. Ed slips his hand on top of Oswald’s and rubs his thumb across the back of his hand. “These are all eerily similar to injuries from my own past. Has anyone gotten shot in the  _ shoulder  _ and neglected to tell me?”

“Not that I’m aware,” Ed says. “And furthermore, my leg and your leg aren’t actually that similar.” Oswald leans against him and Ed moves his arm so it’s behind Oswald’s neck. “I’m not even sure who would have cursed you, or who in Gotham could make it be effective.”

“It certainly wouldn’t be the strangest thing to happen here.” Oswald closes his eyes and lets more of his weight press onto Ed’s side.

“Maybe you’ve just gotten hurt too many times. I’m sure we could find more people that share similar injuries to yours if we looked hard enough.” Oswald laughs under his breath. “Try to look at the positives.”

“As much as I’m in love with this newfound optimism of yours I think I’d prefer to wallow in my pessimism for a bit longer.” Oswald yawns deeply, and more of his weight presses Ed into the back of the couch.

“You’re tired.”

“I’m  _ exhausted _ .” He blinks up at Ed, long lashes fluttering a bit as he tries to keep his eyes open. “You can’t have slept well out here.”

“No,” Ed chuckles. “I did not. I think the lab couch would have been more comfortable, but it was taken.”

“I distinctly remember Zsasz  _ insisting  _ he stay upstairs, unless I managed to somehow dream while awake.”

“It was Fries, not Zsasz,” Ed says. He was planning on asking Nora about the phenomenon before Oswald began using him as a pillow. “Are you intending to sleep on me?”

“Are you genuinely protesting or is this all posturing?”

Ed attempts to stretch out his back a bit without jostling Oswald too terribly. He slips one of the thin pillows behind his lower back to give himself a bit more support. “It wasn’t posturing so much as it was  _ posture _ related. The pillow should help.”

“If you say so.” Oswald hums. “You didn’t try to start my day with a riddle.”

“I think I may be too tired,” he says. Oswald fakes a startled gasp, not bothering to make his expression match the faux shock. “What’s the first thing you do every morning?”

Oswald taps his chin, and then closes his eyes. If he ever did have any intention of answering Ed’s riddle it seems he’s decided to skip trying in favor of getting some sleep. Ed whispers, “you wake up,” against his forehead before resting his head against the back of the couch.

He stays half alert, only dozing instead of letting himself fall asleep fully. Ed is vaguely aware of someone leaving the Manor during the morning, but not the time or who it is, not that it really matters either way. It's just a vague curiosity, one he's able to ignore well enough in order to let Oswald sleep.

“Psst.” Ed snaps his eyes open and sits up, glancing around the room until he finds Zsasz crouched on the floor in front of the couch. “Hey sleepyheads.”

“What do you want?” Ed snaps. Oswald is beginning to stir beside him.

“Quick little thing, probably not a big deal.”

“Then why am I  _ awake _ ?” Oswald groans. He's pressing his fingers into his eyes.

“So there's maybe someone outside. Could be nothing, but uh, they definitely had a gun or two so might want to move away from the window, now, and fast.”

Ed sits up properly and turns towards the window for a moment, scanning the grounds behind the sun room. If it’s just Fish they’re fine. As long as it’s - “Oh hell. Oswald,” he whispers, “it isn’t Fish.” He urges him off the couch towards Zsasz. “Lie low, get upstairs. I’ll be right back.”

“What?” Oswald cranes his neck around towards the window, glaring out at the intruders, and then glaring back at Ed. “Where on earth are you going?”

“The lab, just, give me a few minutes, please, and we’ll regroup upstairs in the bedroom.” He moves off the couch and walks in a crouch towards the door.

“At least take Zsasz with you,” Oswald hisses, and he moves past Ed without bothering to try and hide. “Protect him,” he demands, pointing at Zsasz’s face. “He’s unarmed.”

“So are you,” Ed says, but Oswald drags a pocket knife out of the pocket of his robe. “Oh.”

“You’re actually bringing a knife to a gunfight boss?”

“This isn’t going to be a  _ fight  _ if you two hurry up.” Oswald barrels forward, limping as fast as he’s able down the hall. Ed hesitates at the bottom of the stairs, watching Oswald for a moment longer before striding over to the study, tapping his fingers against his legs nervously as they wait for the secret entrance to open.

“What’re we getting down here?” Zsasz asks, far too loudly. There’s no telling how close these intruders are to the doors, or if they’re already in, and he doesn’t even have his  _ taser _ -

He takes a breath, and another, and forces himself to focus. Weapons, gadgets, he just needs some tools and he’ll be more than capable of dealing with this threat.

“Just follow me,” he says lowly. He moves across the space to Bruce’s storage and upturns a portable toolbox, spilling the contents across the workbench and righting it so he can begin filling it with smoke bombs, a taser, some handcuffs, and anything else he can get his hands on. “There’s a small case on my lab bench, the one with the hazard label, grab that too.”

“You got it,” Zsasz walks away, not fast enough, but no one seems to be moving at the speed Ed wants, not even himself. He takes a moment to open his personal drawer on the lower left corner of the workbench and takes out a few smoke bomb casings and a wiring kit. By the time he’s loaded the larger case Zsasz has returned, handling the chemicals with far too little care. Ed takes it from him and gestures to the case. “Carry this.”

“What about the frosty guy?” Zsasz jerks his thumb over his shoulder.

“The fr-oh.” He turns he finds Victor still on the lab couch, and Nora by his side. “Damn, okay,” he takes a breath, surveying the mess they’ve made of the workstation, and orders, “stay down here.”

“Ed?” Nora’s expression doesn’t demand an explanation as much as it compels Ed to  _ want  _ to give her one, but they don’t have the time. Victor is also looking at him with a very wary, very accusational look, and Ed doesn’t want to make him angry. He shakes his head and turns away.

Nora calls after him again but Ed urges Zsasz back to the stairs, ignoring when Zsasz asks, “shouldn’t you answer the lady?”

“Not now,” Ed says. “We don’t have the time. They’ll be safe down here.”

At least he hopes so.

They’re nearly to the top of the stairs when Zsasz plants one hand on Ed’s chest and flattens him to the wall. Ed sputters, hissing, “I could have  _ fallen _ -”

“Shh.” Zsasz points into the study, and Ed peers over his shoulder, noting a single figure’s feet moving about the space. As the feet turn towards them Ed reaches for Zsasz’s case and digs around until he finds a smoke bomb, clutching it firmly in his hand before lobbing it into the room above, filling it with a thick, smelly smoke. He grins when the intruder begins to cough. “I can fill a room in an instant, but I’m ephemeral in a breeze, what am I?” He goes back to Zsasz’s case and hands him the taser. “Use this. Wouldn’t want to get any blood on our host’s hardwood.”

Zsasz nods and hands over the case, switching the taser on and crouching low before he disappears into the clouds of smoke. There’s a scuffle, some shouting and two gunshots, then a pained shout from the mystery man as Zsasz, presumably, finds some exposed skin and sends fifty thousand volts into his body.

“Clear,” Zsasz says, and Ed finishes making his way up the stairs to take in the damage. He coughs a bit in the smoky room, but it isn’t strong enough to bother covering his face. The smoke is already beginning to dissipate, leaving a small but widening ring of about six feet clear enough to see. Ed stands over the downed guard and sets down the cases so he can pull out a pair of cuffs.

“So sorry to have to leave you but we’re in a bit of a rush,” he says, tugging the man’s arms behind his back and securing the cuffs over his wrists. “The answer was smoke, by the way.”

Zsasz drags Ed’s attention away from the still quaking man when he reloads the heavy caliber pistol he was carrying. Ed straightens and watches Zsasz search the man for more ammo, and he takes the holster as well, but quickly tosses it aside.

“Pretty sloppy to not have an ammo pouch,” he says as he shoves the rest of the ammo into his pants pocket. He hands off the taser to Ed so he can return it to the case.

“We don’t really have time to be judgemental.” Ed sets the taser inside and closes up the larger case. He picks them both up, one in each hand, and grins down at the man. “I'm guessing he isn't the only one.”

“He’s probably a scout. Slipped in through some window.”

“You're probably right. Upstairs, now,” Ed nods with his head and they begin making their way to Oswald.

They don’t encounter anyone else on the way to the main staircase or in the hall, and once they turn the corner to the guest wing they find Oswald standing in the hall with what appears to be a sniper rifle in his hands. Not really a decent choice for close range, but Ed hasn't given the windows a second thought until now.

The way Oswald's face calms and softens makes Ed feel warm and welcome. He smiles, and Oswald lowers the gun.

“We’re convening in the reading room,” Oswald says. Zsasz moves past the two of them, gun still in hand. Oswald lingers in the hall until Ed reaches him, and he tugs Ed down by the collar of his robe for a kiss. Ed rests his forehead against Oswald’s for a second, and then they’re all rushing forward to the reading room.

It appears Gang’s migrated from the bedroom to here, and she regards them with very little interest from her place on the bench in front of the large windows. Oswald locks the door behind them and Ed places the two cases on a low end table situated between two large leather lounge chairs.

“What did you bring?” Oswald asks. Ed opens both cases and Oswald begins sifting through the tools, ignoring the chemicals Ed’s proffered entirely and bypassing some of the more useful items in favor of pulling out a single pair of handcuffs, pinched between two fingers as if it's something smelly or unpleasant. He gestures to them and asks, “do you think we’re getting close enough to use these?”

“There’s already a scout downstairs with a pair of those on, and Zsasz liberated him of his weapon and ammo.” He pulls out some of the empty bomb casings and sets them on the table, then he begins examining what chemicals are in the safe box. “I’m hoping to make a few small scale chemical weapons if there’s time.”

“I think we can label any time we have up here as borrowed at best.” Oswald turns away from the cases and holds out the sniper he’s holding. “Victor,” he calls Zsasz over, and Oswald hands him the gun. “This is a tranquilizer gun. I trust you’ll be a decent shot regardless of the lethality of the weapon. Do your best to thin the troops before they get close enough to do any damage.”

“Can do,” he agrees cheerily and over to the window, forcing one of the panels open and getting low into a crouch. He starts firing off a couple darts at the lawn within seconds.

“How many have you seen so far?”

“A dozen, maybe more,” Oswald sighs. “Barbara’s, if I had to guess.”

There’s a quiet scuffle followed by the sound of breaking glass; Ed and Oswald turn in time to see the remains of one of the windows shatter, and the tinkling as the shattered window pane begins raining down on their one uninjured security detail. Zsasz swears, but when he stands up and fires off a few more darts he appears uninjured, just very annoyed. Ed examines the wall across from the window and finds the bullet hole near the ceiling, only about the size of a golf ball but still far too close for his liking.

“Oh crud,” he mutters. “They’re high caliber, based on the weapon Zsasz took.”

“I think I got that from the large hole it left in the wall,” Oswald says. “Just how quickly can you whip up whatever it is you’re going to make?”

“Fairly quick, actually. I just need to dilute a nitrate ester in some solvent. When thrown it should cause a small explosion.” Oswald boggles at him. “Just a tiny one.”

“Fine, mix your, whatever that was.” Oswald turns to address the rest of the room and Ed rushes over to his chemicals, resting on his good knee in front of the case. Just as he’s adding solvent to a small disposable beaker Oswald begins rallying their very small team. “We obviously have superior firepower and skill. These,” Ed looks up in time to see Oswald make a disgusted face as he gestures at the window, “neandertals would be no match one on one, so they’re going to come at us in droves. Zsasz, continue thinning their troops from the upper floor. And our friend Gang,” Ed can see the deadpan expression on her face and he would not consider it a friendly one, “will cover Zsasz’s backside and provide secondary fire from within the Manor. I can’t imagine the scout is the only man that’s made it inside.”

Ed begins adding a very small volume of the nitrate ester into his solvent, dropwise, carefully swirling the beaker to stir the mixture and keep it uniformly distributed. If he had the time he would perform actual calculations aside from the estimates he’s working with from memory, but there isn’t enough time, and even closing his eyes for a minute to search his memory for similar calculations could be costly.

Having too much of the volatile chemical could also be costly, but he’ll worry about that if the time comes.

“That leaves Ed and myself,” Oswald says, coming over to Ed slowly and placing a soft hand on his upper back. “We’ve always worked best as a team, which is why we’re going to make our way downstairs. Between my aim and your,” he gestures to the small bomb casings Ed is filling with liquid, “this, we should have no trouble.”

“We aren’t utilizing half our team,” Ed points out as he fashions up a cushioned carrying case out of a small cigar box from the end table and the tie from his robe. “What about Selina? Ivy? Freeze?”

“Not here, not here, and he might as well be on another planet with that wife of his being alive and mostly well,” Oswald says. “And I assume Alfred would have initiated some unknown safety protocol by now if he were around.” He bends over and looks Ed in the eye. “We are at our strongest together. Never forget that.”

“I know,” Ed says. He pushes himself up off the floor and slips the cigar case into his robe pocket. “I have complete faith in you.”

Oswald pats a hand on Ed's chest and sighs. “It's a pity we have to defend ourselves before we had the time to get dressed. There really isn't anything intimidating about pajamas.”

Ed finds himself laughing despite it all, and he smiles. “It does lack our usual flair.”

“Victor, see that you and your associate keep doing what you do best. Ed and I will attempt to reclaim the Manor.”

“Sure boss.”

“You don't have another weapon?” Ed asks. “Nothing long range?”

“I'm not going to parade around the house with a sniper. We'll make due with what we have, which reminds me,” he says to himself as he crosses the room and leans down behind one of the large chairs. He drags a large gun locker out from behind it and beams at Ed as he flips it open, revealing a few pistol shaped tranquilizer guns and a dozen or so ammo boxes of darts. “What he have is more than enough.” He turns to Gang. “I do appreciate your continued aid. Ask anything of me and it's yours.”

“Gun,” she says, holding out a hand, and Oswald rolls his eyes before reaching down for her and pulling out a gun and a box of ammo. She aims it at a few spots in the room before turning to the window and firing off a couple shots. Although the gun doesn't smoke when fired she still blows off the barrel with a soft puff of air.

Oswald grabs two boxes for himself and another of the pistols, and he sets the ammo inside the tool case before snapping it shut and holding it our for Ed. “I'm sure you'll be more in your element with this than any gun.”

Ed accepts the case and holds it with one hand, getting a feel for the weight, which isn't insignificant but also isn't unbearable. He double checks for his little bombs and nods to Oswald, ready to tackle whatever Barbara tries to throw at them.

The second floor beyond the reading room is quiet; the only sounds are of their socked feet padding along the floor and some distant shots ringing out, most likely aimed at Zsasz and Gang. Oswald leads them to a window near the main staircase and slowly slides it open a crack, taking aim through the two inches slit and firing off a single round. Ed watches as the man Oswald hit staggers from the impact of the dart and starts to stumble.

“Fast acting,” Ed says. “Nice touch.”

“A tranq does us no good if it allows them to still take aim.” Oswald pats Ed's cheek and gestures to the stairs. “Let's find the window your little scout friend used.”

As they reach the ground floor Ed's pocket begins buzzing, and after patting himself down he finds his phone in his robe pocket. Oswald gives him a very distinct 'what the hell are you doing’ face and Ed accepts the call, doing his best to ignore the way Oswald rolls his eyes. “Hello?”

“Mr. Nygma, please tell me the reason I'm getting an alert from the Manor's silent alarm is because something in the lab has disrupted it and not anything more sinister.”

Ed pauses for longer than Alfred probably finds comfortable, and he settles on vague honesty. “It is not.”

“Fantastic,” Alfred says sarcastically. “And here I thought being stuck in line at the post office would be the low point of the day.”

“It’s being handled,” he says, quietly but forcefully. “I wouldn't bother coming back just yet.”

“Did you at least inform Master Bruce?”

Ed pulls his phone away from his ear and opens up his messenger app. “Yes. I. Did.” He speaks slowly, and as he finishes speaking he sends the message off. “Yes, he knows, but he's a busy man-”

“If you think he'd rather stay at the office then come home to deal with an emergency then I think you don't know him very well.”

“Fair enough.” So Bruce will be here soon. Oswald gestures at him to hurry up, and he'd holds up a finger. “Just curious, where exactly was the alarm triggered?”

Alfred sighs. “The solarium.”

“Fantastic, alright.” Ed watches Oswald's unimpressed expression as he ends the call with, “I'd love to discuss this with you further but Oswald is waiting for me. Toodles.” He ends the call and pockets his phone.

“Are you done chatting?”

“There was a silent alarm triggered in the solarium.” Ed moves in close and grins. “We have our point of entry.”

“Then why don't we go pay our guests a visit?” Oswald grins back. Ed waits for Oswald to drag him down by his tie for a kiss, one of his favorite signs of affection on a job, but Oswald doesn’t pull him closer. Instead he moves away and begins walking towards the solarium. Ed tugs one side of his jacket and quickens his pace to catch up.

The walk to the solarium is unhindered by intruders, and aside from a wide open window they don't find any evidence of an intruder. Ed scours the area around the open window, with Oswald keeping a close eye on the backyard beyond the glass windows, but he comes up empty aside from a couple darts. It confirms one of their attackers got inside, but not the number, and Ed isn't foolish enough to assume the scout is the only one to cross the Manor’s threshold.

“We're too exposed,” Oswald says firmly, “no one else is in here unless you count the plants, which I'm sure Ivy would.”

“This is a simple puzzle,” Ed says. “Human nature is incredibly predictable.” He stands and examines the room more fully, noting some precariously placed plants and a few dried leaves leading off in the direction of the kitchen. He steps closer to Oswald with every word. “Logic dictates they've gone to a place of food, of fun, of culinary fantasy.”

“What are you doing,” Oswald deadpans.

“They're in the kitchen,” he says. “At least, that's where their trail leads.” Oswald eyes him warily, and Ed is quick to explain. “There are several disturbed plants-”

“Not now Ed, please.” He starts pushing Ed towards the kitchen and Ed matches his pace. “We'll discuss this later.”

“It won't be relevant later,” he says, but he quiets himself when Oswald holds the barrel of the gun up over his mouth, miming a finger to his lips.

The kitchen is empty, but it isn't all that surprising. Ed begins examining the floor and easily moved furniture, looking for the next couple as to where any more intruders went. Every glance he spares towards Oswald reassures him; he's ever vigilant, keeping an eye on every entrance.

Ed finds nothing. He moves away from the table and begins examining the attached dining room and the halls leading to the rest of the Manor. He finds no open windows or doors, and aside from the stray shots at the upstairs windows the first floor is relatively quiet.

“There isn't anything here,” he calls back, dejected. He walks back from the hall and into the kitchen, calling attention to himself by clearing his throat. “I’m afraid we’re back at square one.”

“Not quite. We know no one is here,” he gestures to the empty kitchen. “Don’t forget to savor the small victories every once and awhile.”

Ed nods and sets his tool case on the table, taking a moment to close his eyes and do as Oswald says. But there’s a soft creak of hinges, almost undetectable, and Ed’s eyes fly open. He takes in the pantry, ajar, enough for a man to fit through, and his mouth won’t form words fast enough; he croaks and Oswald focuses on him, concerned, and Ed shouts, “Oswald!” just as the butt of a rifle makes contact with the back of his head, and Oswald goes down hard.

He seethes, rushing to open his case and he pulls out a smoke bomb, throwing it at the ground between him and the assailant, filling the room with smoke. Someone coughs, Ed crouches low and holds his shirt up over his mouth, moving to the other side of the counter and rushing the gunman, knocking him to the ground long enough to grab Oswald by the arms and drag him out of the cloud of smoke.

“Oswald,” he says, voice shaking, hands doing the same against Oswald’s shoulders.  _ Calling attention to us he’ll come this way _ . “Oswald,” he says quieter, putting a hand near Oswald’s nose and laughing with relief when he feels a steady puff of air. With one hand on Oswald’s chest, and his eyes fixed on the dense cloud, Ed feels a powerful fury building in his chest.  He reaches into his pocket for the cigar case and pushes himself up off the floor, stepping so he’s between Oswald and the graceless goon who dare lay a hand on him.

“Pity I don’t have more time to come up with something more clever,” Ed says. He pulls out a set of two bombs and clutches them in one hand. “Although bomb’s away just doesn’t have the flair I’m looking for.” He hums. “My only function is to disappear, what am I?”

He throws them, laughing as the smoke clears enough to see the startled look on the man’s face, but then there’s the heat, the brightening light, and Ed’s eyes widen. He miscalculated. “Oh sh-”

He closes his eyes, arms up to protect his face, ineffective at best against fire but instinct takes over. Ed waits for the feeling of heat to overwhelm his nerves and senses, but the stifling heat is replaced by a rapid,  _ alarming  _ cold and the all too familiar, indescribable sound of an ice gun blasting to his right. Ed feels the cold locking up his arms, stabbing into his skin and, and when Ed takes a breath he can feel his arms still shaking, still  _ moving _ , and he lowers them slowly, bolstered by the lack of any more blasts from Victor’s freeze gun.

In front of him is a large ice chunk, hollowed out on the inside by the heat and shock wave from his twin bombs, and an equally frozen gunman, face still focused on the explosion in front of him, likely never aware of Victor’s presence before he was already frozen in place. Ed turns to Victor and takes in his unimpressed expression, obvious even with his goggles firmly in place. Ed takes in a shaky breath, reaching up a hand to straighten his hat, no,  _ to run through his hair,  _ nervously and he leaves his hand resting against his forehead just above his left eye.

“You shouldn’t throw bombs inside the house,” he says. Victor walks across the breakfast nook and over to the large windows, looking out at the lawn. “Are there any more people inside?”

“I,” Ed gulps and takes a few more breaths, “a scout, in the study. In handcuffs.”

“You should stay here,” he says, “with him.” Victor gestures with the end of his gun over at Oswald, and Ed nearly gasps, rushing back over and kneeling beside him. “Shouldn’t take long.”

“Oswald,” Ed whispers, touching his face, laughing with relief when his brow creases with irritation and probably more than a little discomfort. Ed’s certainly feeling plenty of pain in his own leg, and he  _ didn’t  _ fall to the floor. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I could use a stiff drink,” he groans. Ed moves his hand gently over Oswald’s scalp, somewhat mollified when his hand doesn’t come back with any blood on it, but the concern for any potential concussion lingers. “Or I’d like to sleep for a week, whichever you’re more in support of.”

“Neither. If you have a concussion-”

“I’ve had plenty, and this,” he pauses and blinks, “ _ might  _ be that,” he sighs unhappily. “You’re going to make me get some sort of physical exam I assume.”

“I’ll summon Lee if she’s available.” Although he makes no move to do so. Instead Ed moves just a bit closer and lets Oswald rest his (probably throbbing) head in his lap, and he runs his fingers through Oswald’s hair, and they wait.


	33. Chapter 33

The first thing Bruce does once he’s in his car is call Alfred. “Please tell me you’re not at the Manor.”

“I’m not Master B,” he says and Bruce lets out the breath he was holding. “Although I am  _ aware  _ of its current state. Mr. Nygma recommended I not come back just yet.”

“I’m driving there now,” Bruce says. “Once I’ve assessed the situation I’ll update you.”

“Do be careful, sir,” Alfred says.

“I will be.”

By the time Bruce drives up to the Manor, heart pounding and music too loud, he sees a few ice sculptures he knows he didn’t have this morning when he left, and a dozen or so bodies lying in the grass in the immediate grounds surrounding the Manor. He gets out of his car and begins jogging up to the front door, gaping openly at the various intruders that Victor already subdued.

Inside is similar, but less populated by ice. The first thing he finds that isn’t just an unhelpful frozen goon is Ed sitting on the floor with Oswald; neither pay him any attention until he moves into their field of vision, but neither of them look surprised that he’s arrived either.

“What happened to the kitchen?” Bruce asks. He’s side eyeing a strangely shaped dome of ice near the kitchen counter.

“Apologies, I got a bit,” Ed pauses, “overzealous.”

“I received a slight blow to the head and someone,” Oswald begins, voice a bit raspy, and he reaches up behind him and pats Ed's chest, “might have overreacted.”

Bruce inhales, not very surprised but feeling very tired, and he catches a lingering hint of smoke. “Was there a fire?”

“Somewhat,” Ed says. “Although initially I also used a smoke bomb.”

“I need to find the others,” Bruce mumbles. “Are you safe here? If not I’d like to see everyone in the dining room to assess any lingering threats.”

“Victor should have wrapped everything up with that freeze gun of his,” Oswald says. “You missed out on all the fun.”

“Somehow I doubt I missed everything.” He pulls out his phone and hits his speed dial for Jim. “I'm glad you're both alright.”

They aren't paying attention to him anymore, and don't respond. Bruce turns away from them and begins moving through the rest of the Manor to survey the damage. After a few rings and two untouched rooms (the bathroom and hallway leading to the sitting room) Jim picks up.

“Afternoon,” he says.

“Someone attacked the Manor. I've found several men encased in ice on my lawn and a few inside.” He examines two broken windows in the sitting room and the opposite wall, which will need some minimal drywall repair and fresh wallpaper. He has been meaning to redecorate. “Afternoon.”

Jim is silent while Bruce moves on to the sun room, noting several broken windows and a painting on the other wall with a few holes in the canvas. He can't remember the painter, only that it had been one of his mother's favorites. He'll invest some money into getting things properly restored if able.

“Can you say that again?”

“Ed texted me to say there was an emergency at the Manor. By the time I got out of Wayne Enterprises and back home they were able to stop the apparent onslaught.” Bruce abandons the first floor and moves on to the second. “I need to find everyone but so far no one is gravely injured, although if Lee is free her services might be required.”

“Can't I have one normal day at work?” Jim sighs to himself. “I'll come help investigate.”

“I think we're past hoping this isn't somehow connected to Strange.”

“Every time I think something isn’t it somehow is,” Jim agrees. “I’ll be there soon, just need to dodge some people at the GCPD.”

“And I need to find everyone to get a status report.” Bruce hangs up and walks down the hall towards the guest rooms, glancing into each one and noting more broken windows and damaged walls, but nothing irreplaceable seems to have been caught in the crossfire. As he enters Ed and Oswald’s room, expecting to find nothing, he’s surprised to find Zsasz inside, sitting on the built in bench by a completely shattered window and cleaning what appears to be a weapon. He’s whistling, but the second he hears Bruce he whips the weapon behind his back and goes silent.

“What was that?”

“Uh, my phone.” Bruce uses his phone to text Zsasz and they both watch as an unattended cell phone on the bedside table lights up and begins ringing. “Second phone.”

“Who gave you the weapon?”

“No one.” He shrugs and holds his hands up, one still holding onto the gun. He glances at it and tosses it onto the bed, and Bruce scoops it up. “Okay so  _ someone  _ did, but they use sleep darts.”

“Sleep darts,” Bruce repeats. He opens up the chamber to the pistol and pulls out a single dart, careful to not touch the sharp end of the needle. “It’s non-lethal.”

“Yep,” he nods. “So am I getting that back or...?”

“Don’t push it please.” Zsasz nods. Bruce almost doesn’t see the glance he spares towards the space underneath the bed, but when he glances back up at Bruce he freezes, looking startled and suspicious. “Are there more weapons in this room?”

“Weapons? No,” Zsasz denies.

Bruce takes a moment to kneel down, keeping one eye on Zsasz has he does, and he lifts up the bedskirt, revealing a person. He blinks. “I see.”

She’s staring right at him, familiar in face but he can’t recall a name, and she slowly reaches out and pulls the skirt out of Bruce’s hand so it’s back to covering her. Bruce stands up and sends a questioning look to Zsasz, but he only shrugs. “Jim didn’t say I  _ couldn’t  _ have visitors.”

“He didn’t.” Bruce has bigger concerns to deal with right now. He’ll address this once he knows everyone is safe. “I need to find everyone else. I’d appreciate it if you could move down to the dining room.”

Bruce exits the bedroom and walks out into the hall. Zsasz calls out after him, “can do B!” and Bruce doesn't stop to ask whether or not Zsasz is going to bring his guest, or if he'll at least tell Bruce who she is so he doesn't have to waste time looking at his old files.

The more rooms he goes through without finding Selina the quicker his steps become, until he's practically jogging through the upper floors of the Manor. The only thing stopping him from calling out to her, or actually just calling her phone, is the fear that there may still be someone unfrozen moving about the property. He has no intention of calling attention to her if she's in any potential danger.

Bruce finds no one else upstairs and begins working his way back downstairs to check the rest of the main floor. The bulk of the floor is just as empty as he left it, with the exception of Ed and Oswald, who still barely acknowledge his presence. He reminds himself that they were here, directly dealing with the attack, and it’s understandable for them to be a little frazzled.

And Bruce has other worries he needs to address. There’s still no sign of Selina or the Fries’. Victor appears to have been more than capable of handling himself, but Nora’s health is only tentatively good; she’s still in the first year of treatment and too much stress can’t be good for her. And Selina, Bruce stamps down on his train of thought and starts walking to the Batcave entrance.

He only gets two steps into the study before he stops dead in the doorway.

There's more damage here than he expected. A single goon is on his stomach, hands twisted back into a pair of handcuffs from his supply, and he's motionless. Bruce lingers long enough to check for any vitals and moves on when he finds none.

He glosses over the rest of the room, not willing to fully process the damage now while Selina and the Fries’ are still missing. Bruce walks down the wide staircase to the lab, and he finds it empty at first glance. There doesn’t appear to be any damage anywhere, aside from some of his tools scattered across the workbench, and there are no frozen blocks of ice with people inside.

In the medical suite of the Batcave Bruce hears a steady hissing sound, and he announces himself, “Nora? It’s Bruce,” he says. “It’s safe to come out.”

One of the cabinet doors swings open slowly and Nora peeks out from the floor of the cabinet. Her air canister is the cause of the hissing, possibly a slow leak. Bruce comes over and helps her to her feet and carries the air canister for her. “It fell off the cart,” she says. “Something broke but I didn’t have time to fix it.”

“We’ll just replace this one,” Bruce says. He hefts the canister up onto the gurney and walks the short distance to the cabinet they’ve designated for Nora’s air supply. “Did Victor tell you to hide?”

She nods. “Is he okay? I can’t really hear anything upstairs, but Ed was acting strange, and then an alarm went off.” She watches silently Bruce as he sets up a fresh air canister. “He took his freeze gun with him.”

“I did assume that based on what I saw upstairs, but I haven’t found him yet.” Nora’s expression becomes despondent and unhappy. “If you’d like we could go find him together.”

She nods and slips off her old cannula, trading it for the new one and taking in a deep breath. “I can’t help but think I’d feel it if he wasn’t okay.”

“I understand the feeling.” He hasn’t found any sign of Selina but there’s this hopeful tug in the center of his chest despite that. “I should warn you, there is an alarming number of frozen people upstairs, but once they’ve thawed they should recover. It just looks bad at first glance.”

Nora doesn’t look like she feels any better, but she walks alongside Bruce, her air canister cart rolling along between them. He carries the cart to the top of the stairs, and he nearly drops it when standing there, with her hands on her hips, he sees Selina.

“You're alright,” he says, relieved.

“I'm going to find Victor,” Nora says to him, and he finishes setting down her air and allows her to give them space. At least, that's what it feels like she's doing.

“Hope you have a reno budget,” she says casually, nodding to the windows and some holes in the wall. “Place took a beating.”

“Where were you?”

“I was over with Ivy, and then she flipped out when her plants sensed somebody and she used them to put us on lockdown.” Selina eyes him with a bit of irritation. “You didn't tell her to do that did you?”

“Of course not.”

“Because I can still take care of myself,” she insists. One of her hands moves to her stomach, a silent 'I can protect this too’.

“I believe you,” Bruce says. “She must have been worried.”

“Yeah, she was. She also told me you were running around like a crazy person over here and let me leave.” Selina straightens his tie and dusts off his shoulders. “So I guess you were worried too.”

“Ed didn't give me any details,” he explains. “I expected to arrive in the middle of things.”

“Yeah, frosty had a real good time out there.” She gestures to a man not even a hundred feet from the broken window to Bruce's left, fully encased in ice and looking like he was trying to back away.

“Once they've thawed the GCPD will have to question them. I doubt we'll be able to make this look like a robbery.”

“Gonna be awkward to explain all the ice cubes too.”

“Jim's the only one coming for now.” Bruce won't allow anyone else to come near the Manor until they can relocate Victor somewhere safe. Ivy's new home is the closest and probably best option they have given the short timeframe. “Did you see Victor?”

She shakes her head. “Ivy can probably find him if he's actually missing.”

“I'll consider it. Right now I don't think we need to worry.” He turns away from Selina and begins to truly take in the room. His father's old first editions and non-fiction books are toppled, some of the covers are bent and torn, and others appear to have taken a few stray bullets. It isn’t a matter of replacing them, because he has the funds available to get multiple copies of each if he wanted, but these were his father’s. They won’t have the dog eared pages from him wanting to refer back to passages, or the small handwritten notes in his work related texts.

“I don’t want to bring down the room,” Selina says, “but you’re going to see it eventually.”

Bruce turns away from the books and looks at Selina, following her pointing finger up to the portrait of his parents. “Oh.”

It wasn’t completely destroyed, but the portrait didn’t make it through the attack unscathed. There are several points of damage to the frame, and a large, messy hole in the space just over his mother’s left cheek. Selina touches his shoulder, and he leans into it.

“I know it’s just a portrait,” he says.

“Well yeah, but it’s  _ them _ . I get it.”

She can’t, not all of it, not the nights he’s spent looking up at them, pretending to have a conversation with his parents as if they’re here with him. Alfred can give him advice, he can offer support and insight, but as much as Alfred is like a second father to him, he isn’t his first, and he certainly isn’t Bruce’s mother.

“My parents were always proud of how patient and mature I could be for my age,” he says, “but I didn’t want to sit still that day.”

“What kid would?” Selina laughs. “Don’t those take like, hours?”

“Days, at least for the artist they commissioned. But I only had to sit there for one.” He clears his throat. “I don’t think the artist paints anymore.”

“Bruce, they aren’t the only artist in  _ Gotham _ , let alone the whole world.” But it’s about the moment, the way his mother promised to let him go outside as long as he sat still while the artist worked, the knowing smile she gave him whenever he snuck a peek up at her from the stool he sat on. It’s a memory frozen in time, in a sense, more than just the image created by paint on canvas. “Let’s go, come on.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know, but you’re really bringing the mood down in here.” Selina gives his shoulder another strong squeeze, and makes a move to steer him away from the ruined painting. He lets her lead him out of the room and to the stairs, and she continues to bring them down the hall to a room next to Bruce’s. The nursery, or, the room he intends to turn into the nursery. It’s gone from being his own nursery to his activity room to a private den, and he intends to start the cycle over again.

“Why the nursery?”

She shrugs and raises one eyebrow. “There’s a pool table in here and a wet bar. I don’t know what kind of parenting books you’ve been reading but these,” she gestures to the room, “are really more for when the kid’s already an  _ adult _ .”

“I’m going to renovate.” It’s almost a pity the room is untouched for the most part. The window has a small hole in one pane and there’s an equally small hole across the room in the wall, but otherwise it’s pristing. “I never did anything to my parent’s room after their deaths. I can always move a few things into there.” Selina gives him a knowing look but says nothing. “I know why you brought me here.” He watches her trace a finger along the line where the felt of the pool table and the dark wood of the frame meet. “I was fixating.”

“You always do that.”

“I was fixating on things I can’t change, things in the past.” He looks at the not so gentle curve of her stomach, now six months in and rather prominent against her thin frame. “This room is about the future, our future.”

“Bruce-”

“Are you staying once the baby is born?”

She glances to the side for a second and chews on the corner of her lips. “Bruce, I haven’t changed my mind.”

“You can stay with Ivy, or,” he sucks in a breath, “there’s room for you. There’s room for the cats-”

“I’m not doing this right now.”

“I don’t see why.” He crosses his arms over his chest, pressing down on his ribs when they feel too big to breathe against. “Please, just, explain why you won’t talk about this.”

“Because you’re upset! Because Strange or Barbara or  _ both  _ of them send like, twenty guys to your  _ home  _ with  _ guns _ .” She crosses her arms, higher than normal because of her stomach. “If you want to bring this up  _ again  _ later, fine, but not when you’re standing here  _ crying _ . There’s still like, three months to go. Don’t pile more shit onto yourself right now.”

He wipes at his face, startled when his palm comes away feeling wet and cold. Bruce puts his hand back and tries to breathe slowly. Three months, that’s right. More accurately they have about two months and two weeks. And right now it makes sense. He should be considering how safe it would be to travel with a newborn, and whether or not Strange would try to follow them to Norway or any of his other foreign homes. The Manor doesn’t look or feel safe with bullet holes in the walls and window.

He dries his face and lets out a long, deep sigh, expelling some of the worry and anxiety with it. “I wanted you here because I thought you would be safer.”

“Well, I agreed, so don’t beat yourself up over it.” She moves further away and leans on the wall next to the broken window. “Looks like frosty is coming home.”

Bruce moves to join her and watches Victor as he slowly makes his way back, stumbling, and Bruce throws open the window to shimmy down the side of the house. “Go to Ed, tell him to get some of Victor’s coolant and plenty of ice.” She boggles at him as he grabs a nearby trellis and begins climbing down, rushing over to Victor just as he collapses to the ground, his gun flying from his hand into the grass beside him.

-

“One of the tubes of his coolant system was severed and caused a slow leak, leading to near heat stroke,” Lee explains. “He also had a small cut on his side, which I patched up once we brought his core temperature down. It’s good you acted quickly,” she tells Bruce directly.

“The repair to his suit should hold until the tubing is replaced,” Ed says. “Which I plan to do following this meeting,” he leans down and whispers this into his recorder.

“He’s resting with Nora for now.” Lee says. “Don’t disturb him,” she looks at Ed, then Jim, then Bruce. “I’m sure he can answer your questions later.”

“Yeah well, there’s a lot of them,” Jim sighs. “Several of the attackers are still thawing out, but there are several that Bruce and I found on the lawn untouched by Fries. All dead.”

“Which doesn’t make any sense,” Bruce adds. “I examined all weapons used to defend the Manor, and they were all various models of tranquilizer guns. Non-lethal.”

“Unless someone’s hiding some extra firepower somewhere,” Jim says. “I know you want to believe them, Bruce, but we need to look at the,” he trails off as Victor shuffles into the room, half-lidded and stiff as he drags a chair out to sit at the head of the table. “That was a fast recovery.”

“You should be resting,” Lee chides him.

Victor doesn’t acknowledge them for about half a minute, and when he does his voice is just a whisper. “They’re all clones.”

“Who?” Jim asks.

“The attackers, Barbara’s new army. I recognized them,” he explains. “You won’t find any files on them. And there are no families to contact.”

“He’s improved the process?” Ed asks, holding his recorder up again to capture the words.

Victor shakes his head. “Henchmen are expendable. He wouldn’t waste his time perfecting the process for them.” Victor leans his elbows on the table and holds his head up with his hands. “They don’t have to be perfect, they just have to be able to overwhelm.”

“The three men that attacked Selina’s place still haven’t spoken a word to anyone,” Jim says. “Not any inmates, no staff, nothing.”

“Failsafes. A shutdown they’re programmed to enact, or sometimes it’s more crude.” Victor glances around, mildly confused, maybe looking for a window to gesture to some of the dead attackers. “He won’t like this.”

“Do you think she acted without his permission?” Bruce asks. It would explain the rash nature of the attack.

“No, he wouldn’t have allowed this many out at once if he didn’t intend to get results, but it's a big drain on resources to clone a person, and I counted at least twenty.” Victor leans back in his chair and closes his eyes.

“You should be resting,” Lee insists.

“Barbara was here,” he says instead. “I followed her into the treeline, but she started saying the memory words,” he stumbles over his explanation. “Memory phrase?”

“I've been referring to is as a cascade,” Ed offers.

“Cascade,” Victor nods. “It fits.” He lifts his head from the back of the chair. “She started saying that, I fired off a blast, think I got an arm or a leg, I'm not sure, but then she severed a line for my weapon, and for my coolant. She ran off after that, and I had to get back here.”

“And you need to rest properly, now,” Lee repeats herself, this time more forcefully, and she goes as far as standing up from her seat. Victor sighs but doesn't appear at all unhappy to being ordered to leave the room. Lee follows him out, leaving Bruce with Ed and Jim, and still a few things to consider.

“Is Oswald alright?”

“He's over at Ivy's resting,” Ed says. “Possible mild concussion, but he's no longer symptomatic. Actually,” he pushes away his chair and stands, “I should go check on him. Unless there's more you wanted me to do.” There’s a pleading edge to his voice, and a desperate look in his eyes. He’s asking permission to leave, in his own way, and he doesn’t look like he wants any resistance from Jim or Bruce.

“Just repair Victor's coolant system when you're able.” Bruce can see the stress Ed's carrying on his shoulders, and assumes the separation is taking a toll on his nerves. “Jim and I need to discuss a few more things. If we have any questions for you we'll call.”

“Tell Oswald to suck it up,” Jim says, teasing, and Ed smirks once before leaving the room. “If you told me a year ago I'd be joking around with Ed Nygma again I'd have you committed.”

“I think I remember you saying that before.”

“It's still crazy, mostly because it doesn't actually feel weird to do it.” Jim settles back in his chair. “I can't keep the GCPD out of this anymore. Twenty men storming Wayne Manor is front page news.”

“We might be past trying to keep them out of the loop. Claim I have some priceless item here for the museum, or maybe I bought something for myself that’s worth a lot of money. Batman being targeted isn't something new, but they came to my home and caused a lot of damage.” Bruce folds his hands on the table. “I have one concern. If Strange has a hold on anyone in the GCPD then he'll want me to accept some sort of police protection. I'm not going to do that, especially with Victor, Selina, and Ivy on my property. It wouldn't be safe for them.”

“They’re going to insist you at least let them sweep the property,” Jim says.

“ _ This  _ property,” Bruce specifies. “Ivy’s current residence isn’t part of the main estate, and none of Barbara’s men went anywhere near there. I trust you to set up a definite boundary for any police sweeps, and I’ll do my part to hide any evidence that anyone but myself and Alfred are staying here.”

“We have one other problem,” Jim says. “The clones. People are going to notice when I try to bring in about a dozen guys with the same face.”

“I think there are several faces and not one.”

“That wasn’t really my point, Bruce. I can claim two of them are twins, maybe tie it into Two-Face as some sort of duality schtick, but not even he can find that many identical twins in Gotham.”

“Maybe we aren’t giving the city enough credit then,” Bruce proposes. “Tell them they’re clones. Be honest, or maybe just don’t deny the possibility. Clones aren’t exactly the strangest thing to hit the city, and it will at least get rumors pointing to Strange even if there isn’t any physical evidence.”

Jim nods his head as he mulls over Bruce’s proposal. “Yeah, alright, big problem solved. I have another one. Where are you staying during the renovations?”

-

“You aren’t worried about having a lot of unusual people in your home right after an attack this big?” Lee asks. “You don’t exactly know who Strange has on his payroll.”

“Ivy’s keeping an eye on things with her plants, and she isn’t alone. Ed, Oswald, and Selina are all staying with her until the police finish investigating.” Bruce and the Fries’ are all around a small table in Lee’s basement, which based on observations is normally Barbara’s space to work on homework or other projects. “I hope we aren’t intruding.”

“The only one bothered by any of you is Bosco,” Lee sighs lightly, rolling her eyes at her small dog, who hasn’t left Lee’s lap unless forcibly removed and tends to growl whenever Victor gets even a tiny bit closer. “He is not an intruder, stop.”

Bruce doesn’t bring up the fact that Victor keeps leaning in slightly on purpose. Nora’s certainly noticed, based on the way it makes her laugh behind her hand every time he does it, and if she doesn’t feel the need to make him stop then Bruce doesn’t see the harm.

Upstairs a door opens and shuts, and Lee swears quietly. “That’s definitely Barbara. Let me go give her fair warning that her space has been invaded.”

Lee gets up from her spot, dislodging the dog and making him bark unhappily down at her feet. He follows her up until she goes up the stairs, where he sits down and whines pitifully. Nora is the one to rescue him from his funk, calling him over with a few wiggling fingers, and he trots over with his stumpy legs and she lifts him up into his lap. The dog refuses to look away from Victor even as Nora begins to pet him.

“I don’t think he likes you,” she says.

“I’m not really a fan of him either.” He gets up and stretches, making a point of brushing his hand over Nora’s shoulder as he walks away, nearly sending the dog into a barking fit, which is only kept at bay by some more enthusiastic petting from Nora.

“Victor appears to have recovered fully.”

“He used to get overheated sometimes before he was this way, but he recovered fast then too.” She changes from petting the dog to just holding him, which he seems to accept now that Victor is no longer in the room to terrorize him. “There really isn’t ever going to be a safe place for him, is there?”

“Even if we do apprehend Strange Victor was made to do quite a lot of bad, destructive things. It will take a lot of convincing and work to make people understand that he didn’t want to do any of it.” Bruce clears his throat. He’d planned on waiting to speak to them both together, but he can hear water from what Bruce guesses is the downstairs shower, and he’d rather not wait. “I have a proposal for the two of you. Getting Victor out of the country legally is basically impossible, and illegally takes time and money, and while I have money we don’t really have the time to waste. There is a small cabin upstate in a remote, wooded area. It’s still near to the next town, but the only way to approach the cabin safely is to use the drive. I made sure of that when I first built it out there. It’s perched near the edge of a ravine with very sheer, dangerous sides. By the time anyone would manage to climb them you will have already seen them ages ago.”

“You think we should leave Gotham?”

“It’s only about an hour outside the city. I read my file Strange has on me, and it didn’t list the property in his notes. It looks like a single story from the outside, but the basement is actually a small lab.” He goes up there to think, sometimes alone and sometimes with Alfred. They’ve come up with his best gadgets out there. “He’s welcome to use it as he sees fit.”

“I’ll talk to him about it,” she says. “I know he could protect us if he has to.”

But it sounds like he doesn’t want to. “You have time, and there are plenty of details that would still need discussed if you agreed. I just wanted to extend the offer.”

-

An article flashes across the TV screen as Bruce watches the news, ‘Wayne Manor sight of intense firefight as-’ he switches off the TV almost immediately, not interested in having to listen to a retelling of the white lie he told the GCPD. They offered to give him personal protection multiple times, and he refused them all. He knows it’s procedure, especially with him being a notable figure in Gotham, but it’s too easy for Strange to slip one of his own men into the protection detail.

It’s not like he’s defenseless by any means.

Across the basement his communicator begins buzzing, and he expects it to be Alfred, but the second he accepts the message a young, rapid fire voice is almost shouting in his ear. “Batman! I saw, well the news was on and, holy Moses I just-”

“Richard, please lower your volume.”

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” he takes a deep breath. “So um, you’re okay?”

It occurs to Bruce that this is the closest Richard’s gotten to acknowledging the fact that he really does know who Batman is under the cowl. Bruce appreciates the subtlety.

“Yes, everyone’s okay, myself included. Wayne Manor was attacked by Barbara’s men, but they were all apprehended.” Or dead. He moves away from the TV and over to the small window on the West wall, looking out at the clear, calm night. “No one was hurt badly.”

Richard is quiet for some time after that, but Bruce can hear his distressed breathing near the microphone. He waits, wanting to let Richard work through whatever it is he wants to say. “Should we do a traveling show?”

“A what?”

“The circus. It’s just,” he takes a breath in and rambles off his explanation, “I wanted to see if you think it’s safe because there’s always  _ huge crowds  _ at the shows and  _ anyone  _ could be in them, and, well-”

“Richard,” Bruce interrupts him, “it’s okay to be worried. Barbara is,” he sighs, “still out there, somewhere. We don’t know where. But Strange won’t be happy with her for failing, and he’s lost a lot of his men. I’m not going to say you should let your guard down, far from it, but maybe we can all breath just a bit easier tonight. Okay?”

“Okay,” he agrees. “Alright. I gotta go,” he says, quieter than he has the whole conversation. He shoots off a hurried, hushed goodbye and the line clicks off.


	34. Chapter 34

The bathroom in Ivy’s new home is small, cramped, but that may be due to the large number of plants she keeps on the various surfaces. Ed tried moving them once, but she was less than thrilled, shrieking about humidity and what have you. His fault really. She’s never been a fan, and moving her plants around willy nilly is not a way to get on her good side.

Cramped as it is, there’s plenty of room for Ed to stand at the sink basin with his hands grasping at the sides. He stares at the mirror, at his tired looking face, occasionally looking up and to the side, waiting for him to hurry up and show himself. So far the only ghostly figure haunting the space is Ed, but he’s certain that will change, he can  _ feel  _ it.

“I am always with you until you turn the lights out,” he whispers, waiting for his own shadow to slide into place with a shit eating grin and proclamations about Ed’s relationship or his job, or maybe he’ll go deeper this time, dredge up something  _ really  _ far back in Ed’s subconscious. There’s certainly plenty of material filed away from a lifetime of being Eddie Nashton, Ed Nygma,  _ and  _ the Riddler.

Living multiple lives is certainly  _ exhausting _ if nothing else.

“If I didn’t know any better I’d be worried you fell in the shower,” Oswald says as he appears by Ed’s side. “You’re doing an awful lot of staring.”

“Just looking for something,” Ed says.

“You wouldn’t happen to be looking for  _ him _ , now would you?” Oswald asks.

Ed glances his way for a moment and back to his tired eyes in the mirror. “Lucky guess?”

“Something like that.” Warm, solid hands slide onto Ed’s shoulders and he shudders, but leans into the touch. “I was there, after all, when you started getting a little  _ theatric  _ back in the Manor.”

“I wouldn’t call my actions theatrical.”

“They certainly weren’t practical,” Oswald counters. “Ed,” Oswald drags his attention away from the mirror, both with his soft voice and a firm hand, and he sighs unhappily, “what am I going to do with you?”

“Make wild accusations about my apparent mental state?” He snaps. Oswald’s expression doesn’t change. “Sorry.”

“Why are you trying to find him, exactly? I thought you’d had some sort of breakthrough?”

Or a breakdown, Ed’s not so sure anymore. “If I could find him it would make explaining things to myself much easier.”

“Ah,” Oswald nods. “You mean the riddles.”

“And the bombs. And the,” he huffs, “the feelings.” A mild manic episode, one he hadn’t even realized he was experiencing before crashing down into this funk. He rubs a hand over his unshaven face and closes his fingers around Oswald’s hand, resting there, letting Oswald feel it when he swallows with unease. “I haven’t felt like that in,” he trails off, not certain whether it’s actually been years or if it just feels like it has.

“Listen to me,” he brings Ed back out of his train of thoughts, “this is going to sound bad, and possibly cruel, but I am about to be honest with you, so you will listen. Understood?” He waits for Ed to nod before continuing. “Back there at the Manor, that was the closest I’ve seen you to being the Riddler again in ages. You’re relapsing.”

Ed sucks in a breath. He’d known what Oswald was going to say before he said it, but hearing it out loud is different than muttering it to himself alone while staring at a bathroom mirror. It’s confirmation that he’s not the only one seeing it, feeling it, and it makes him feel a bit sick.

Or maybe very sick. Ed lurches forward, moving past Oswald to kneel on the cracked tile and throw up what little he managed to eat. He feels hands on his back, and at some point Oswald pulls off Ed’s glasses and smoothes back his hair.

“That's quite the reaction.”

“You expected some agonizing wails?”  _ Or glee? _ He thinks. “I prefer suffering quietly.”

Oswald snorts and runs one of his hands through Ed’s hair. “Not that I have any experience with the woman as a licensed health professional, but I can't imagine Ms. Thompkins forgot to tell you the tired expression recovery isn't linear?”

“I don't think she had the Riddler in mind,” Ed snarls, or he tries to at least. It sounded far more pathetic out loud.

“You aren't exactly an _ average  _ patient.” He digs his thumbs into Ed's shoulder blades, working the tense muscles loose and pulling more than one grateful moan from Ed's mouth. “You know, I was going to say more before you started hurling up your dinner.” Ed opens his mouth to reply, but Oswald finds the knot on his left shoulder and all that comes out is a long, low moan. “You relapsed, yes, but do I see the Riddler kneeling over a toilet bowl? No, I see  _ you _ , understand? As you should be.”

“Vomiting from distress?”

“ _ Yes _ , as odd as it sounds.” He offers Ed a handkerchief and straightens his hair while Ed wipes up his mouth. “Do I need to explain myself?”

“No,” Ed says. He sets the handkerchief on the floor near the base of the toilet and flushes twice. Oswald keeps one hand on Ed's back, coaxing him to lean against his chest, which Ed does without hesitation. He'd prefer it if this was happening on the full sized bed in Ivy's only guest room, but he'll take what he's given without too much audible complaining.

-

“September 18th, following Barbara’s attack on the Manor her activity in the city has gone silent. Following several meetings with Tawny it’s been determined, with a high probability, that she’s either left the city entirely or gone far enough underground that the rumors aren’t even reaching her. I find the former more likely, given her lack of expertise, or perhaps a lack of caring, to carry out the latter.” He crosses off Ivy’s name on his notepad with a few angry scritches of his pen. “Despite Ivy’s best efforts, and a very extensive and far reaching plant network, her pollen has not been able to detect any traces of Barbara above ground, which led me to conclude she's not hiding away in the sewers.” He sets the recorder aside and looks at Ivy’s indifferent expression, watching as she flips through her magazines and ignores Ed’s pleas to just  _ try harder _ . “She doesn’t magically stop being a threat just because we can’t find her. In fact, most people would consider that an  _ increase  _ in threat, given her history of not exactly  _ dropping  _ matters partway through.”

“Do you always record yourself?” Ivy asks without giving him her full attention. “You must have a lot of tapes stashed around.”

“I digitize them,” he says. “And that’s  _ incredibly  _ far from the issue at hand.”

“Look I tried!” She tosses her magazine onto the table and leans forward, a few of her smaller vines jabbing in Ed’s general direction with irritation. “She left, okay? There’s nowhere she could have gone in Gotham."

“There’s the subway system, the sewers-”

“I’m in there too! I’m everywhere! I see everything!” Ivy crosses her arms and Ed watches some of the vines getting uncomfortably close in his peripheral vision, and then they pull back to their places near the sunny windows. “And I’m not lying to you, okay? Plants work harder than  _ anyone _ and they get no recognition.”

Ed slides his glasses up and pinches the bridge of his nose.  “Are you demanding I give your plants the recognition they deserve?” Ivy continues to pout at him, and Ed rubs his eyes. “Fine, alright. With the help of your plants the GCPD was not burned to the ground, but Barbara is still at large and  _ always will be  _ unless we find her.” Ivy rolls her eyes. “Could you take things seriously just this  _ once _ ?”

“Why do you even want to go after her?” Ivy shouts back. “Make someone else do it!”

“I,” Ed stops himself, sitting back and blinking. “That has potential.”

“It does?”

“Oswald and I don’t have henchmen anymore. We don’t have an army, and unless Zsasz has managed to escape Gordon’s little ankle monitor he can’t do anything even if we did find her.” Ed pulls his notepad closer and scribbles a quick note. “Give this to Selina when she returns. She’ll know what to do.”

-

“September 20th, still no reply from Fish,” Ed mutters into his recorder before he sets it on the rickety bedside table. It’s noon, and he’s considered getting up more than once, but the bed is warm and the air outside is unusually chilly. Oswald has certainly taken advantage of the opportunity to catch up on his sleep, but Ed remains wide awake, switching between staring up at the blurry ceiling and rolling to his side to watch Oswald’s chest go up and down with each steady breath.

“I know you’re watching me,” Oswald says, clear as day and not near as asleep as Ed thought. Ed chuckles under his breath as Oswald opens his eyes and regards Ed with a flat look. “If she hasn’t answered yet then it’s for good reason.”

“It’s been two days.”

“You say that like it’s a long time to wait for a response from Fish Mooney.” Not when Ed’s been worrying that the attack at the Manor was just a taste of Barbara’s new army. And not when puking his guts out over the mere mention of his relapse still isn’t enough to get Ed to dispose of his remaining bombs. “Ivy hasn’t sensed Barbara with her plants. Don’t worry quite so much.”

“There’s no reason to think Strange hasn’t come up with some sort of workaround to hide people from Ivy’s plant network.”

“Would he waste it on her at this point? Getting Barbara out of his hair sounds like a blessing the man wouldn’t overlook.” Oswald carefully rolls onto his side and reaches out to fuss with a few of the loose curls that have fallen over Ed’s forehead. “If the man ever deserved even one compliment in his life it’s that he is efficient, although I am loathe to admit that out loud.”

“You believe keeping her around is inefficient.”

“I believe I know Barbara well enough to know that she’s very talented at burning out her usefulness long before anyone else does it for her. Is she talented? Skilled?” Oswald shrugs one shoulder. “At some point everyone is, but maintaining that level is something not everyone masters.” Unlike Fish, it seems. They’ve both known her for nearly twenty years, and neither man nor god-like monster has managed to keep her down long. “Have you ever thought about leaving?”

Ed blinks. “The Manor?”

“Gotham.”

“Oh.” Ed hums. “That wasn’t the most pleasant of experiences last time, unless you’re angling for another little jaunt to Norway.” Which Ed does not count as leaving because they didn’t  _ go  _ anywhere outside the small cabin on the lake. It felt more like switching guest rooms in the Manor than leaving the country. “We’re not welcome most places.”

“We  _ weren’t  _ welcome most places,” Oswald corrects, and he isn’t wrong. Despite both of their best efforts in the past Ed can’t think of any country that’s banned them from entry, although he’s entertaining a brief fantasy of them trying to enter China or maybe somewhere in South America and having to fight their way free from a mob of angry locals. “The benevolent James Gordon has lifted those concerns from our weary shoulders.”

“We decided leaving was bad for us,” he insists. “That Gotham is the only place we can be us and be free.”

Oswald is silent except for his breathing, and he sighs a few times while touching Ed’s hair. “Do you still believe that even with hindsight?”

“You don’t?”

Oswald shrugs. “Immediately following our departure, sure, I agreed with you then, but I am not suggesting some hasty retreat to lick our wounds. I’m thinking of something a bit more permanent.”

Ed feels a protest bubbling up in his chest, forming and gaining momentum, but he squashes it down by pressing his lips together, and he forces himself to actually consider what Oswald is saying. A permanent move. It feels daunting and huge, scary in ways Ed can’t really articulate properly. Gotham is their home. It’s where they grew and met, where they fought and eventually found one another again. Would their paths have even crossed in another state? Another country?

Would Ed’s parents have had the forethought to just commit their son instead of dragging his life through the mud for years?

He moves a bit closer to Oswald without giving his opinion on the matter, accepting the arm that slides over his shoulders and clutching one hand in the front of Oswald’s flannel shirt.

“No matter what we choose we will be together,” Oswald says. He sounds so confident of the fact.

At some point he slips into a light doze. It isn’t deep enough a sleep to dream, and he wakes without lingering fears gnawing at the back of his mind.

He’ll consider Oswald’s suggestion. He doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t seem to hate it either, and that’s cause enough for him to wonder if Oswald’s onto something.

“Your phone rang ten minutes ago,” Oswald says. “She’ll be by the docks in a half hour, so I suggest we get up and make ourselves presentable.”

-

There’s never been any scientific data Ed’s found to back up any sort of correlation between nice weather and conversations going well, but he has a good feeling as he and Oswald walk across the grounds to the docks. The sun is bright but not unbearable, and he’s comfortable in a long sleeved button down and cardigan, something he’s been severely missing in the dead heat of summer. As Fish’s watercraft pulls up to the docks and she steps out, every bit the powerful controller of the underworld, Ed’s hopeful attitude remains, and it’s bolstered by the light greeting she extends to Oswald.

“Good to finally see my little bird in person,” she says. Oswald kisses her hand, a custom they’d adopted again at some point without Ed’s knowledge. “He had me thinking you were too busy for the likes of me.”

“Never,” he says back, sending Ed an over exaggerated glare on her behalf. He’s doing it for Fish’s benefit; Ed knows this because Oswald gave him fair warning that she’d want a show. Oswald shrugs. “At least he has a nice face.”

_ It’s just for appearances _ , he tells himself. Ed studies Oswald’s body language, searching for evidence that he’s wrong or maybe misheard Oswald earlier, but there’s no lines of aggression in his shoulders, and when he beckons Ed closer and keeps a hand on his arm, just above Ed’s elbow, it feels good, grounding, and he leans into the sturdy grip.

“I cannot thank you enough, really, for taking the time and effort to come meet with us.” Ed’s never been a fan of the groveling Oswald affords this woman but he understands the need. “I do know how taxing it can be to run Gotham’s organized crime.”

“Now I know you two didn’t call me all the way up here just to flatter me,” she says. Ed feels the urge to back up a step when she moves in closer, drawing a finger up the fine embroidery of Oswald’s waistcoat, but Oswald holds him in place. “So what great need must you both have to seek me out like this?”

Ed can feel a monologue coming from Oswald before he’s even opened his mouth. It’s the quirk of his lips, the slight head tilt, but Ed’s feeling far too impatient. “Barbara Keane’s army has been weakened.” Oswald and Fish both stare at him, twin looks of incredulity that he’s not willing to play this game of theirs. “She’s like a fish in a barrel, easy pickings, whatever you want to call her, she is weak.”

Oswald pats Ed’s chest condescendingly and Ed scowls down at the ‘what can you do’ face he makes regarding Ed’s ‘rashness’ or whatever he’ll call this breach of etiquette. “Rudeness aside,” Oswald goes with, “Ed is correct. Miss Keane attacked us here at Wayne Manor, which we all know is one of the most capital offenses in Gotham given the city’s love of the Wayne’s. Now  _ unfortunately  _ it seems she’s slipped through the cracks, and neither the GCPD’s ‘best efforts’ or ours have managed to figure out what sewer she’s crawled in to hide, but a woman of your immense resources should be able to flush her out without any trouble.”

Fish is staring at the two of them critically, and in a way that makes Ed feel that their request isn’t being regarded as highly as they’d hoped. She starts circling them then, steady as ever despite the uneven ground, and her men still on the boat start giving the meeting more of their attention. “It’s shocking,” she starts, drawing a finger over Oswald and then Ed’s shoulders, making him shiver, “that you would make such a bold request without any offer of collateral or payment. Do you think my services are free? That I keep my eye out for you out of the goodness of my heart?” She stands inches from Oswald when she asks this, and he holds her gaze without flinching.

“The offer,” Oswald says, “is Barbara’s territory. Unopposed. All for you. It’s a pity I won’t be able to get any sort of parking ramp up near the aquarium before it opens, but the people will come regardless.”

“You’re daring to offer something you don’t even have?”

“I’m offering you the highest payment someone in your career can get: information. I can tell you for a fact that Barbara has been working for Strange, and that after this botched attempt there’s no way the man won’t let an accident befall her if it means getting her out of his hair, so to speak.” He smirks. “Ivy’s gotten herself a little network set up in the entire city, and no one near Barbara or the woman directly has set off a single alert.”

“We think she’s left town,” Ed adds. He’s also considered that Strange may have gotten rid of the problem himself already, which would be rather fortuitous for all three of them. “Her army is no more, she’s not here to defend the territories herself, so it’s yours, like Oswald said.”

“And your end of the deal?” Fish asks.

“Confirmation that Barbara is swimming with the fishes,” Oswald laughs lightly.

Fish taps a single manicured finger to her chin for a moment, then gives her reply. “No.”

“What?” Oswald blinks, composure and calm dissipating. “What do you mean ‘no’?”

“Well I’m going to be terribly busy in the next few days,” she says. “You see, I’ve been given some valuable information by a trusted source that a certain crime lord is no longer in Gotham, and all of her territory is free for the taking.” Oswald finally releases Ed’s arm and fumes, clenching his fists. Ed touches his back, but Oswald shrugs him off and stalks right up in Fish’s face. The men start mobilizing, but Fish holds up a hand, and they still, but their weapons aren’t lowered. “Why the long face little Penguin?”

“We have no army,” he says. “No following. Ivy’s network is rudimentary at  _ best _ , and I  _ thought  _ we had an agreement.”

“And I  _ thought  _ the two of you were retired, or at least your man here keeps claiming so,” she says, “but from what I understand you were still able to take down Barbara’s army without my help. Now I  _ know  _ you know better than to try to play me,” she whispers, getting even closer than Oswald did, close enough to make Ed mentally retreat somewhere quiet and safe even as he moves to stand by Oswald’s side, “so don’t stand before me now claiming you’re some helpless little bird in need of mama Fish’s help to put the big bad lady six feet under. You made her angry all by yourself, and it’s about time you start finishing the battles you start. If you’ll both excuse me, I have an army in need of some new orders. Do your best to stay out of their way, unless you want to learn what it feels like to be hunted by someone who knows how to finish what they start.”

She turns away from them without a word, waving her men back to their seats as she approaches. Oswald grapples for Ed’s hand, squeezing it tight, and his thumb begins smoothing over Ed’s knuckles and tapping. Neither of them says a word as the boat pulls away from the docks and Fish leaves them there, fully exposed and on their own.

-

Ed is holding his recorder tightly in his free hand, the other holding a pen against the pad of paper before him, but he hasn’t gotten past gripping the plastic until it creaks with protest and leaving a very deep blot of ink on the first line of the page.

He clears his throat and tries something simple. “September 21st,” he says, and he switches the recorder off again, this time setting it down on top of the blank notepad. He rests his elbows on his lab bench and holds his head with the tips of his fingers, gently massaging at the headache that’s been nagging around his temples all afternoon.

“Ed?” He blinks out of what may have been near sleep and sits up, turning to see Nora standing to his left. “Are you busy?”

“You don’t look like you have good news,” he says.

“That depends, I guess,” she sighs. “Please?”

It’s not like he was getting anything productive done here. Ed nods and follows Nora out of the lab and up into the study, which is still gutted for repairs, although the windows have all been replaced. Nora leads Ed into the same sun room he was sitting with Oswald when Barbara’s attack first started, and he selects a chair that has a clear view of the windows and the yard beyond. Nora sits in a chair to his left.

“Does you being here mean you’re coming back to the Manor?”

“Not exactly.” She makes a pained face and whines softly. It takes her a bit to look Ed in the eye again. “I’m not sure how to start.”

“I’d suggest the beginning.” She doesn’t even smile. This doesn’t feel like it’s good, and Ed steels himself, building up a bit of a stockpile of steady emotions to help maintain his composure.

“Okay.” She sighs. “We’re going to be here for a couple nights to get some things packed up, and then we’re leaving again.”

“For Lee’s,” he says, nodding to himself. “She hasn’t been targeted, and her home is far out of the way.”

“Not there either,” she explains. “Bruce offered to let Victor and I use his cabin upstate.”

Ed sucks in a breath. “Upstate,” he repeats. “Why?”

“Bruce is worried about the stress being in Gotham puts on me, and Victor is too. The cabin is secluded and safe, but it’s still close to town, close enough if something were to happen,” she trails off, touching a hand to her sternum, “well, it’s close. We drove up there a few days ago. The view is breathtaking.”

Funny how Ed feels like his breath is already gone. It’s a shame he wouldn’t be able to appreciate the scenery. “We’re supposed to keep everyone together. Safety in numbers, or something like that.”

“Bruce told me the cabin wasn’t in Strange’s files. It’s under a pseudonym, one Strange doesn’t know about. Victor thinks we should go,” she says, “and I trust his judgement.” She looks at Ed sadly. “And I agree with him. Gotham doesn’t feel very safe for myself or Victor.”

“He seems fine to me.”

“He’s never been very good at admitting when he’s uncomfortable or scared.” She smiles briefly. “Don’t tell him I said that. He’ll get embarrassed.”

“Are we talking about the same Victor?” This time she actually laughs. “I suppose you won’t be able to communicate very readily.”

And he’s managed to make her stop smiling just as quickly as she started. “There’s a secure line for emergencies. I don’t think wanting to talk to friends qualifies.”

No, Ed supposes that’s not the intended use of a secure line. There has to be some angle Bruce missed, some sort of detail he’s overlooked. Ed looks away, and back to Nora, and he comes up with only one possible roadblock. “Will someone ship your medication there? And his coolant?”

“There’s actually a lab,” she says, “and Victor knows the procedures.”

“Well I suppose Bruce has thought of everything,” he says bitterly. Her eyes get misty and he backpedals a bit. “Feeling safe is,” he pauses, “a priority, but sometimes I think it’s a luxury I cannot afford anymore.”

“I really hope that isn’t true.” She offers Ed a hand, and he takes it. “Maybe we just have to be patient, and someday we’ll get to live without someone being in constant danger.”

“It’s a nice thought,” he says. Ed hates the way his chest rattles when he tries to take in an even breath. So much for maintaining his composure. “I haven’t had very many friends, although I have managed to lose a startling number of them.”

“We’re not going to stop being friends just because I’m an extra hour away.” She’s getting blurry, or maybe it’s his eyes misting over now. He doesn’t want to find out for sure. “If the two of you want I’ll make Victor let you stay with us.”

Now Ed laughs, a bit at his own expense but also at the prospect of rooming with Victor Fries. “I doubt he’d agree to that.”

“He would if I told him to.”

“No, that’s alright,” and it is, somehow. It feels good knowing she’d at least consider fighting on his behalf. “We’ll think of something. Letters, perhaps. Selina’s always been a reliable carrier, and very discreet.”

They talk for a few more minutes, mostly brainstorming possible ways to communicate, which ranged from somewhat impractical to downright ridiculous, but as he leaves Nora alone in the sun room he doesn’t feel the heavy pull of loss in his chest anymore, and that counts for something.

Although nearly walking into Victor on his way down the hall, and knowing he was very likely in earshot, makes his blood boil just a titch. “I bet you’re happy.”

“She’ll miss you, and that will make her unhappy, so no, I’m not happy.”

“Simple solution, don’t leave.”

“I’d rather she stay alive.” Victor pivots on one heel and beckons for Ed to follow. “And she cares if the two of you stay alive, so I have something for you.”

“How thoughtful,” Ed huffs, but he’s intrigued, so he follows Victor down through the renovated study and back into the lab. “Making me hand off my notes to you in person?”

“I already grabbed those,” he says, and Ed takes a few measured breaths. “It’s over here.”

He presents a simple cardboard box, and Ed eyes him warily before lifting some of the flaps, and he blinks down at the contents. Inside is a large plastic case with a thick, durable handle, and a row of canisters. “What is this?”

“Freeze grenades,” he says, unlatching the case and pulling out a single round object. “The canisters are pressurized. Good for breaking open locks, door handles, whatever you like.”

“Why?” Ed asks. His focus is on one of the canisters, and he pulls it out of the box to feel the weight of it in his hands.

“I’m the only reason your eyebrows are still on your face,” he says. Ed fumes but doesn’t disagree. “They’re for protection. I don’t want to know what you might use them for, just take them.”

“Washing your hands of this?”

“I’m leaving the city to hide in the forest with my wife. What do you think?” He takes back the canister and closes up the box. “She’ll be unhappy if you die, so try not to do that.”

-

“September 23 rd , personal log, several of Barbara’s territories are reportedly under Fish’s control. At some point either she’s grown a soft spot or Oswald did plenty of groveling without my knowing, because she’s signed over a property close to Oswald’s aquarium. If time permits he will draft up plans for a parking ramp, although he’s expressed interest in just handing the project over to a trusted third party, whom I suspect must be Tawny.”

Ed reclines back at Bruce’s computer chair in front of his large display of monitors and looks up at the screens. “The Fries’ have left Gotham.”

He didn’t go there himself, but Bruce did, and he assured Ed and Oswald that they arrived safely, and all security measures were fully operational. Ed believes him, because he described in detail the steps he took from checking his personal vehicle for any sort of bugs or trackers to dismantling all phones off the secure line, and even going to far as triggering the alarms himself to demonstrate the response to the Fries’.

Ed switches from his personal tape to his work tape and presses record. “I have made a promise to myself that I will find some sort of lead tonight regarding Strange’s whereabouts.”

Last night, nearly an hour after Ed managed to finally fall asleep, Ed received a text from Ivy. Strange’s signature blipped in and out of Gotham near the north end, somewhere just outside the actual city limits but close enough to Ivy’s sprawling network to set off a single plant. There’s only one road leading outside Gotham that curves in just a way to slip into the network and back out again, and Ed follows it slowly, combing the nearby land on either side of the road for any possible locations for a drop off point or possibly an actual hideout he’s built into the hillside.

It would be so much easier if Strange felt the need to advertise himself, but the best Ed comes up with after the first ten minutes is an old barn on a family farm. Not exactly a scientific hub, and far too small to house the facilities necessary to clone as many people as Strange does.

And using Batman’s computer has its perks, because Ed is able to see the power draw for the farm, which is far below the necessary usage for even one of Strange’s machines, let alone the potential dozen Ed remembers seeing in the lab under chemical storage.

He’s ready to give up on his digital search and move onto some old fashioned looking when Ed sees something on the west side of the highway. He’s never been to the pharmaceutical company campus before, but he did see several news reports about the extensive damage, and unless he’s mistaken no one’s dared to purchase the old PharmaGo campus from the original owners, either because they didn’t need the land (Wayne Enterprises) or because anywhere that Firefly and Freeze have destroyed must have some sort of Rogue’s mark on it for life (everyone else).

He picks up his phone and makes a call. “Selina, I need a favor. Drive north of Gotham on-”

“Right now?”

“-yes I do mean right now, please. This is important. I need you to drive past the old PharmaGo compound and use the infrared thermometer.”

He listens to her grumble and groan before hanging up, but he’s confident she’ll so as he asked. While she presumably gets ready and leaves Ed busies himself with the news reports, highlighting phrases like ‘abandoned campus’ and ‘potential chemical hazard’. It shouldn’t be an issue either way. Selina doesn’t have to set foot on the property. He just needs one point of data to confirm his suspicions.

There’s only so many news outlets he can sift through before they’re all just repeating each other, and Ed taps his pen nervously, waiting for just one text, one little bit of information. The kind of heat a cloning operation puts off is  _ massive,  _ and it should be even marginally detectable even if he’s put everything underground.

He gets a single text from her:  _ 95 _ ,  _ can I go back to bed _ .

_ Yes _ , he replies, laughing to himself as he hides any evidence that he was using Bruce’s equipment. “Oh, Oswald is going to be  _ thrilled _ .”


	35. Chapter 35

“I'm sorry I couldn't fit you in yesterday,” Lee tells Selina as she smears a glob of ultrasound jelly across her stomach. “Emergency ultrasound, emergency C-section, you know how needy babies can be.”

“They’re very demanding,” Selina agrees. She watches patiently while Lee looks at her monitor, and Bruce fidgets with the paper on the ultrasound chair. “I don't know why you're so worked up. All it did was get bigger.”

“Seven months begins the stage where a baby is viable as long as they receive interventive care.” And the last few times the baby has been asleep. He's hoping the earlier appointment time will make a difference. “It just feels more real every time.”

Selina nods once and turns back to the monitor in time for Lee to finish her initial scanning. “And here we are,” Lee says as she pivots the monitor towards them. “Can't miss that big head.”

“Bet I know where that came from,” Selina says as she looks up at Bruce.

“Why do people keep saying that? My head isn't that much larger than average.” They both give him placating looks and Bruce has to resist the urge to touch his apparently giant head. “Is it awake?”

“Oh yeah,” Selina says, and she points to the screen as the baby's leg kicks. “Kid won't stop trying to roundhouse my kidneys.”

“I'm going to guess that's from you.”

“Just because your legs got too beefy to actually get up high enough to kick someone's kidneys.”

“Thank you.” He jokes. He watches the baby kick again and feels the urge to thank it for defending him. They'll have to stick together if Selina and Silver are right.

Lee distracts the two of them from their teasing with a polite cough. “This is the first time we've been able to see the baby's sex if you're interested in knowing now.”

Lee returns to examining the baby and Bruce turns to Selina. “If you'd like to know I won't stop you, but I think I'll wait.”

“Not itching to figure out if it's a boy?”

“It doesn't matter as long as it's healthy.” He turns to Lee. “Which I assume is still the case.”

“Everything is right on track for seven months. You could probably have it a little early without any major problems, and it would be easier on you,” she tells Selina. “That head is not going to do you any favors in two months.”

This time Bruce does touch the back of his head, and it doesn't  _ feel  _ that big, but then again his hands aren't all that petite either. It must be a perspective thing. A smaller head on his body would certainly look disproportionate.

“You have a huge head Bruce,” Selina assures him, and he shrugs, indifferent. “We all done?”

“Here's a rag,” Lee says as she hands Selina a washcloth. “Bathroom should be clear.”

Bruce hangs back for a moment, but before he can even ask Lee is slipping a printout into his hand. He nods to her in thanks and carefully folds it so it will fit in his wallet. “You don't have to feel embarrassed about wanting a print of the ultrasound. It's good to see you this excited.”

“I’m not actually embarrassed. There's just a story behind it, you'd have to be there.” He slips his wallet back into his pocket and pulls his phone out.

“Outside the suite,” Lee says. “Don’t tell me  _ you're _ overly attached to that thing too. I swear Jim sleeps with it next to his ear when I'm not there.”

“I’m not, at least not usually. I told Victor I would keep it with me in case he or Nora have an emergency.” He follows Lee out of the suite and presses the power button. “It’s just for everyone’s peace of mind, mostly.”

Lee smiles and touches Bruce's arm with obvious approval. “That was a really good thing you did for them. They both needed to get out of Gotham for their health.”

“I imagine Victor's is more mental than physical,” Bruce comments idly, and Lee hums in confirmation. He's five missed calls and has one voicemail. None of them are Victor or Nora thankfully but it's still an alarming number of calls for one hour. “I need to listen to this, sorry.”

He leans against the wall and holds his phone to his ear, listening to the voicemail. “Bruce, it's Jim. There's been ah, Jesus look I need you at the circus, plainclothes. The Graysons were-” it cuts off for half a minute but Bruce can hear talking muffled by distance “-Richard’s okay, or, he's not hurt. Look I need to go. Just hurry down here.”

It ends there. Bruce slips his phone back into his pocket and turns to Lee. His voice is shaking. “Would it be too much trouble to ask you to bring Selina home?”

“Bruce are you okay?”

“I am, but someone else isn't. I need to go.”

“I'll get her home. Be careful, whatever it is.”

“I will be, and if you could tell her I'm sorry, please, I would appreciate that.”

-

There's still a throng of people outside the big top tent, but everyone's being held at bay by the GCPD officers on scene. Bruce takes a quick look at the setting sun and adjusts his shades so they're a bit more snug on his face. He doesn't want to draw too much attention to himself, so he stays out on the fringes of the crowd, standing behind a few shorter circus goers and waiting for either Jim or an officer in the know to beckon him forward.

He doesn't want long. Jim strides through the tent flaps spots Bruce towering in the crowd and parts the sea of people with his mere presence, and he reaches out a hand to shake Bruce's, slipping something into his palm as he does. “Good to see you. Wish it was under better circumstances.”

“Likewise,” he says, although Bruce still doesn't fully know what's happened. “I need to make a call.” He shouts over some talking people, and Jim nods him away. Bruce ducks back out of the crowd and finds a quiet place off the beaten path where only a few of the actual performers are walking, and none of them pay him any mind aside from a quick glance his way. Once the last performer is far enough away to not snoop he smoothes out the note and reads it.

_ Joker killed Richard’s parents, _ is all it says. Bruce feels the unsure anxiety from earlier nearly become a full blown panic attack, but he slows his breathing, eight in five hold eight out, and the feeling passes. He texts Jim a single word, “ _ where _ ” and he only has to wait a few minutes before Jim tracks him down on the back path and starts leading him to Richard.

“Officers already apprehended the Joker. Small crew, hardly any explosions, most people got off lucky.” He sighs. “They were up on the tightropes when it happened. Snapped line, untied net, it wasn't pretty.”

“It never is,” Bruce says. “Where was Richard?”

“Spotting team,” Jim says. He pulls back a flap of the tent and holds it up for Bruce to walk through. The tent turns out to be a shortcut and not the crime scene, and Bruce remembers he's not actually dressed to inspect the scene, per Jim's request. Jim holds open another flap and continues talking. “It all happened too fast. One second the show was going fine and the next,” he doesn't finish the thought; he doesn't need to.

They continue walking down a narrow dirt pathway and over to a corrugated steel building. “Were you in the audience?”

“Me and Barbara. She's back in here waiting for me to get done.” He sighs. “So much for having a night off.”

Bruce and Jim enter what he determines is used as a makeup trailer. Along one semi permanent wall there's a row of vanities with bright lighting, and every surface is full of different types of makeup and wigs and all sorts of hair accessories. The wall to his right is packed with costume racks, some of which are just empty hangers and others still with the costumes hanging limply. Some of the leggings are dragging on the dirt floor and getting dirty, and probably kicking up dirt and debris whenever they're moved side to side.

To his left is a couch, and on it sits Barbara, who's nose deep in what looks like a forensics textbook. She glances up when Jim and Bruce enter and slams it shut before standing and trotting over to them.

“Did you stay here while I was gone?” Jim asks.

“Yes,” she groans, “I stayed  _ right here  _ the whole time, with Richard. He went in there,” Barbara says and points, “like, ten minutes ago.”

Bruce looks to where Barbara was pointing and sees a colorful, possibly hand drawn motif on the front of a thin wooden door. Underneath the colorful feathers and clown faces is a stenciled name 'Grayson’ and Bruce feels another wave of guilt mixed with sympathy wash over him.

“Oh,” Jim exclaims quietly, “Bruce, you know Lee's daughter. Barbara, you remember this guy.”

“You're Bruce Wayne,” she says, and she shakes Bruce's hand when he offers it to her.

“It's been awhile. How are you, Barbara?”

“Busy. I'm taking a couple college level classes.” Which answers any lingering questions he has about her textbook. “I think you're the last person I expected to see here.”

“I told you I was calling in a friend for reinforcements,” Jim says.

“How'd you end up a friend of his?” she directs the question at Jim, and he shrugs.

“Sometimes you just end up in the right place at the right time.”

“We've known each other since I was younger than you are now,” Bruce adds.  _ Since the worst night of his life, _ he thinks. Jim looks like he's thinking the same thing.

“That doesn't really explain why you're here now, but okay.” She's not being snotty, just genuinely curious, which Bruce can't blame her for. Not everyone is friends with a billionaire.

“It isn't some big secret. Jim called me here because he thought I could offer Richard some help,” he hazards, and Jim nods.

“Help how?”

“Barbara,” Jim warns, and he gives her a disbelieving look.

“Oh.” Her face pinks up and she looks at the ground. “Right. Sorry Mr. Wayne.”

“It's alright. And you can call me Bruce.” Barbara's a good kid. He doesn't need to hear her call him by his last name to know she shows him respect.

“Please don't make the joke,” she sighs, and Bruce gets the feeling Jim doesn't listen to her pleas all that often.

“I don't make a lot of jokes,” he stays. There's a brief crash inside the Grayson's makeup room and Bruce looks to them both before turning towards the door. “I think I should go inside now.”

“Yeah, I'll go with you, just give me a second,” Jim says before he turns to Barbara. “Why don't you call your mom. See if she can pick you up. I have a feeling I'm going to be here awhile.”

As he enters the dressing room he hears Barbara ask, “is he going to be okay?” to Jim, and while Bruce wants to turn around and tell her yes there are some days where he's not actually sure that's true, so he keeps his false assurances to himself and closes the door behind him.

The room is about a fourth the size of the main room of the makeup trailer; there are only two vanities to his left and a single rack of costumes in front of him, both a bit disorganized but not terribly so. Everything must be in some sort of logical place, or maybe it's all related to their muscle memory at this point. From what Bruce has come to understand the Graysons have been in the circus business their entire lives, traveling with the group and never fully settling in one place for long.

Richard is sitting on a well worn couch across from the vanities, his hands trembling as he carefully cradles what looks like a cracked picture frame in his hands. It explains the sound from earlier; he must have dropped it and the well packed earth was unkind upon impact.

“Could I see that?” Bruce asks, keeping his voice low and slow. Richard still startles and nearly drops it again, but Bruce swoops in in time and catches the frame. “Sorry. I should have knocked before I entered.”

Richard curls his arms around his torso and shrugs, still looking down at his knees where the frame used to be. Bruce gives him a moment and turns his attention to the frame. It's a photo, which isn't surprising, and by the looks of things it's fairly old. Richard's parents are front and center, looking very tired but overjoyed, and between them is a small bundle that can't be more than a few hours old, face contorted with infant fury at what appears to be a clown nose on his tiny, brand new face.

He turns the frame over and begins carefully extracting the photo from the broken frame, and once it's free and no longer under the threat of sharp glass he hands it back to Richard. “Frames are easy enough to replace.” Richard still hasn't said a word, and Bruce would worry if he didn't understand. Some things are hard to articulate without a guide. Bruce lowers himself onto one knee in front of Richard to try and coax him into making eye contact by removing his shades, which seems to draw Richard’s attention away from his sweats. “Jim called me. He said I should come and help.”

“Why weren’t you here earlier?” Richard finally says, voice chopped up and wet, and Bruce accepts the sting of the accusation without complaint.

“I wish I had been, but phone wasn't on,” he says. “The doctor wouldn't let me use it in the ultrasound suite. I was at a scan to see this,” he takes out his wallet and hands over the new ultrasound image to Richard.

“A baby,” Richard says.

“I'm going to be a father in two months. It was Selina's seventh month scan.” Richard hands over the scan gently, caring for it with the same consideration he's giving the photo of his parents. “Unfortunately my personal life got in the way of crime fighting.”

Richard shakes his head fervently; his face is reddening and he's pressing his lips together but when he still he isn't crying, at least not yet. “You,” he sniffs, “you told me to spend time with my,” he grimaces, but the upset passes, although his eyes are misty when he finally looks up at Bruce. “So you think it's important too.”

Bruce nods. “I know it is.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. He doesn’t specify what he’s sorry about, but he felt the need to say it, so Bruce accepts the apology with a nod.

“Do you want anything? Water? Food? To talk?” Richard shakes his head. “Take your time. I’ll be close by if you change your mind.”

Richard retreats in on himself for a little while, and Bruce gives him a bit of space. He remembers the overwhelming slurry of emotions, the way his own mind kept trying to focus on one nagging question, but one always turned into many, and at twelve he hadn't been able to answer any of them for himself. But he also knows how frustrating it feels to not be able to ask what he wants in the order he wants, so he waits, assuming Richard will come to him once he's ready.

Jim returns before Richard comes out of his headspace. Bruce ushers Jim back out the door, calling back a quick, “we'll just be outside the door if you need anything,” and he waits for the slight nod from Richard before shutting the door behind him. “Has anyone from the GCPD come to ask him for his witness account?”

“No, I told the lead it could wait. There were at least two hundred eye witnesses.” Jim pulls out a notepad and pen. “Has he told you anything?”

“We talked very briefly. He was upset that I didn't show up earlier.”

Jim lowers his head a fraction, clearly disappointed. “He didn't mean that.”

“I know,” Bruce says lightly. “I don't have any hard feelings. I was honest with him and he seemed to understand. And I'll be honest with you, if your account is accurate then there's no way I could have arrived in time. He's just upset, rightly so, and Batman not swooping in to save the day is something concrete he can focus on.”

“Good point.” Jim starts writing something in his notepad. “Joker  _ was  _ pretty pissed you didn't bother to show. Said he  _ invited  _ you and everything. Not sure how true that is, but either way you’re in the doghouse with the guy.”

“He hasn't been very happy with me for awhile.”

“What did you do now?”

“I haven't been the one to apprehended him in over a year.” Bruce shrugs. “I think it's for the best, for both our sakes.”

“Can't argue with that.”

“Did you want me to come here because of my parents, or because of his time as Robin?”

Jim sucks in a breath. “A little of both. He looks up to you. Wouldn’t stop asking why you weren’t here yet; it took awhile to get him calmed down. Bringing him back here away from the crowd helped, and it gave the officers time to make sense of some things.” Jim hands over his notepad and starts going over the notes. “These are the performers’ accounts. They all claim Joker must've swooped in between acts. Everything was up to code when the show started and no performers were missing from dress rehearsal. We're still looking for the clown he replaced, by odds aren't in the guy's favor.”

Bruce skims the notes Jim’s taken, which are all slightly different variations saying essentially the same thing. A few mention Richard “Dick” Grayson specifically, mostly endless sympathies and assurances that the circus is his family, et cetera. He’s clearly well loved by not only his family but the others in the show. “It looks like he’s well liked.”

“He grew up around these people. It’s one of those ‘it takes a village’ kind of deals.” Jim sighs. “I’m not going to lie to you though, Bruce, I don’t know how well he’ll do here without his parents. A lot of the performers made a point of saying how close they were.”

“He’s old enough to help with any decision making. I’ll see if I can get his input.”

There’s a very soft knock on the Graysons’ dressing room door and it opens enough for Richard to peek out. “Can I get some water?”

“I’ll go get some,” Jim says. He motions with his eyes for Bruce to go inside, and Bruce nods.

“Are you okay with some company?” he asks, and Richard lets the door swing open. “Richard you know who I am, right?”

“Bruce Wayne,” he croaks. He might’ve done some crying while Bruce was talking with Jim. “And, well, the other thing too.”

“Right,” he laughs, “the other thing.” He moves to join Richard on the couch and reclines comfortably on one side, saving plenty of room for Richard on the other half. He still sits all curled up with his legs on the cushion, trying to make himself take up as little space as possible. “When Jim gets back you’re going to be asked several difficult questions. If you aren’t ready to answer any of them you don’t have to, but it might help if you try to articulate what you’re feeling.”

“I froze,” he says, eyes welling over in an instant. Bruce considers trying to console him, wondering briefly if Jim will have wanted to hear Richard’s account, but Bruce can’t let Richard bottle this up the way he used to, so he turns towards him and puts a steady hand on Richard’s shoulder. “I,” he sniffs, “when I was Robin I didn’t-” he hiccups- “but I couldn’t  _ move _ .”

“You feel like you should have been able to do something,” he says, and Richard sobs. “I know what that feels like Richard. I’ve replayed that night in the alley countless times, over and over, and every time I look at my younger self and ask ‘why didn’t you  _ do  _ something?’ but you can’t let yourself carry that kind of burden. At some point you’ll accept that some things are just out of your control, no matter what you think you should have been able to do.” Richard wipes at his face with his sleeves, leaving his reddened cheeks looking damp but not soaked, and he tries to breathe past his breath hitching and the hiccups. “I know this is a lot to think about, and I don’t have any experience with this, but he’s going to ask you if you want to stay with the rest of the performers.”

Richard’s face twitches, but he’s able to regain some of his composure. “Do I get to decide?”

“There are some limitations. You can’t choose to live on your own, but you’re sixteen. Your opinion matters, and you shouldn’t feel like you can’t be honest about what you want for yourself.”

-

_ One week later _

Bruce would have Alfred bring up breakfast for Richard, but he’s been sulking alone long enough, and Bruce has a few ideas that might help bring him out of his depressed mood for at least a little while. He knocks on the door to Richard’s room and waits for the soft ‘it’s open’ before he balances the tray on one palm and opens the door with the other.

Richard hasn’t been sleeping well; the rings under his eyes are darker every day, and while Bruce doesn’t want to treat Richard like a little kid he’s considered walking down the hall when he hears him startle awake in the middle of the night. But he’s already made it clear that Richard can come find him or Alfred if he feels the need, and so far he’s done neither.

“Alfred made oatmeal this morning,” he says, lifting the tray up slightly and walking over to the bench seat in the window where Richard is sitting. “He doesn’t use quick oats either. He’s a food purist like that.” Richard mutters a thank you and takes the bowl off the tray. Bruce sets the rest aside on an unused part of the bench and sits. “You put some more of your things away,” he comments, and Richard shrugs. “If you find you need anything let me know.”

“Can I,” he stops himself and curls up around his bowl, “never mind.”

“What is it?”

“It’s dumb.”

“If you think it will help, or make you feel better, then it definitely isn’t.”

Richard avoids answering by taking a few bites of the oatmeal, and then a few more when he actually tastes it. “Holy cow, this is really good.”

“Alfred’s a good cook,” Bruce agrees. “Now what did you need?”

He sets down the spoon and leans his head against the wall. “It’s just, the house was really close to the main entrance, and there was this bright flood light outside my window.” He murmurs, “it’s stupid.”

“There’s nothing stupid about wanting a little familiarity.” He looks out the window and makes a few mental calculations. “Would you say that back fence is a similar distance?”

-

_ Two weeks later _

“I know Jim and I expressed our concerns about you coming out on patrol with me while you’re still a teenager, but I’ve discussed the risks and we both think it would be safe as long as we don’t split up.”

Bruce sits back and waits for Richard’s eyes to light up, or maybe a small smile. He’d managed to get one out of him when they messed around with Ed’s force plate the other night, but it was gone almost as quickly as it appeared. Bruce remembers this latent period after his parents’ deaths but before he found a greater purpose. It feels like floating through time, and he remembers little of the stretch of time before he began investigating on his own. He’s hoping a little push in the right direction will help get Richard feeling a bit like his old self.

But he doesn’t brighten or show any enthusiasm. Richard fidgets with one of the temples of his glasses and curls in a bit. “But you said I wasn’t old enough.”

“I know, but that was,” he pauses, “I’m only extending an offer. It’s up to you if you want to take it or not.”

“I think I’ll stay here,” he says.

“That’s fine,” Bruce says. He touches Richard’s shoulder briefly before straightening out his back and leaving his room. On his way downstairs to the Batcave he slips his communicator into his ear to let Jim know his idea didn’t go over so well.

-

_ Three weeks later _

“It’s sprained,” Bruce grimaces as Alfred helps him out of the Batmobile. “There’s an early frost on some of the taller buildings and I miscalculated a landing.”

“A few days’ rest should do the trick,” he says, “although it won’t do much for that common sense you seem to be lacking as of late.”

“I think I’m just distracted,” he says. He’s also toting around another new scan in his wallet, and plenty more excitement bubbling in his chest. “I was going finish working in the nursery.”

“And I’m sure you can do that from the comfort of a chair while we get Mr. Zsasz to do the heavy lifting, sir,” Alfred tells him. “If I may be so bold, it seems only right we give the freeloader a few jobs to do around the house.”

“Fair enough,” he says, wincing when he puts too much weight on his leg. “I’ll find him once I’m out of my armor.”

“ _ And  _ after you’ve iced that ankle,” Alfred tells him sternly. Bruce knows better than to question his wisdom after he’s successfully treated so many of Bruce’s injuries.

He’s ten minutes into a warm mug of tea and his second session with an ice pack when Richard finds him in the reading room on the first floor. There’s an anxious air surrounding him, from the way his hair is mussed to the uneven tilt of his glasses, and he stands before Bruce’s chair and fidgets quietly for almost a minute without saying anything.

Bruce glances down to his ankle and back up to Richard’s face, back to ankle, face again, and he says, “it’s just a sprain. I’ll recover in a few days.”

But somehow this is apparently the wrong thing to say, because Richard breaks down fast. His glasses end up falling to the floor as he tries to hide the way his eyes are overflowing, and Bruce has to guide him around them as he steps closer and falls into the hug Bruce offers him. He’s trembling, and Bruce doesn’t know what he can possibly say to make this better when trying to reassure him already made things worse, so he doesn’t say anything.

-

“I think I need to take a break from patrols,” he tells Jim later that night.

There’s a long pause before Jim asks, “are you breaking up with the city?”

Bruce laughs. “Barbara won’t let you make any jokes at all will she?”

“She’s stifling my creativity and yet  _ she’s  _ the one insisting we do father-daughter type things.” Jim sighs. “So what really happened? You didn’t run into Strange or anyone did you?”

“No, I sprained my ankle. It was a silly mistake, but Richard,” he glances around to make sure Richard hasn’t returned to the hovering he was doing earlier. “I think me getting hurt so soon after his parents dying scared him. It’s probably best if I stop for awhile unless you call me in for assistance.”

“I always wondered if this day would come,” he says, a bit wistful. “Focus on helping him out. Things have been pretty quiet lately anyway.”

“I haven’t come up with anything to hold his interest yet. I’m not worried exactly, not yet, but it’s strange not seeing him so enthusiastic. I miss it.”

-

_ Four weeks later _

Bruce hangs back, eavesdropping, but he feels it’s justifiable when Richard is sort of his adopted son and Ed’s lab antics can be a bit hazardous to the health of those around him.

“And when I attach these two connectors to the wires it will overload the system, causing the power to surge and then black out. If it’s calibrated correctly it should also take down any auxiliary power with it.”

“Woah,” Richard gasps as he carefully handles what Bruce assumes is one of Ed’s EMPs. “How but a building can it do?”

“Well, the biggest I’ve ever tried was, oh, twenty stories? Theoretically it can work on any building as long as everything is connected to the same grid.”

“Holy crap,” he laughs, and the sound startles Bruce after four weeks of struggling to get him to even smile, let alone actually laugh. “How do you test them?”

Bruce knows that tone, and he knows what Richard is angling for, and unfortunately Bruce has to cross the line at shorting the power to the Manor. He’s about to step in when Ed says, “we’re going to go over to Ivy’s for a little test run,” he says, smile big and mischievous. “She doesn’t even  _ need  _ electricity anyway so it won’t harm anything.”

“Should I have my goggles?” he asks.

Ed taps his chin. “Yes.” He points. “Go get those and meet me by the back door.”

Richard races for the stairs and Bruce hangs back until he’s left the Batcave, waiting until Ed’s nearly reached him before stepping away from his hiding place along the wall. There’s a brief pause when Ed looks very guilty, but Bruce dispels it with a sincere, “thank you.”

Ed looks to his left, then his right. “Were you not actually listening to anything I said?”

“He hasn’t laughed in a month. While I wish the cause was a bit more good natured I’m not going to criticize something that clearly works.”

“I could always make sure the test will be a failure,” Ed offers. It’s a strange thing to be so sincere about but it’s also rather thoughtful.

“I trust you know what you’re doing with an EMP,” Bruce smiles. “I’ll claim I saw the two of you in one of the sitting rooms if I’m interrogated after you cut the power to Ivy’s supplemental lights.”

Ed frowns down at his EMP and he tugs a bit at his collar. “I’ll bring my wiring kit to fix the power after we’re done. No sense introducing to Ivy’s wrath so soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be the last chapter! I can't believe it's already here, but I think after spending this much time on this project I'm glad to see that I can truly finish such a behemoth. It might take me longer to get the last chapter out. I foresee it being longer than the rest but we'll see.  
> Following the last chapter there will be a short epilogue, and I am open to any and all prompts for any missing scenes, explanations for something I didn't implicitly explain, etc.  
> And after this project I'm hoping to go back to The Uncanny Misery because I've had chapter two half written for months.


	36. Chapter 36

“Do you always make your own smoke bombs?” Richard asks. He’s handling a few of the empty shells for Bruce’s new design, and one of the fragile halves gets a tiny crack in it. “Ah! Sorry!”

“It’s alright, that’s why I wanted you to look at them with me.” He picks up the broken piece with two fingers and another crack forms. “I’m a bit worried about the integrity of this new material, since it’s breaking under even a light touch.”

The obvious intent was to not have to throw the bombs quite as hard, which hasn’t taken a toll now but someday his arm isn’t going to like all the abuse he puts it through. He’s trying to think ahead for his sake and for Richard’s. Even if Richard never puts on his goggles for a patrol again there’s a strange sort of practicality for the newly adopted son of Bruce Wayne having some sort of escape plan, and not having to draw too much attention to himself while enacting it is a definite feature.

“Would they be stronger with the stuff inside?”

“It’s a possibility.” Bruce nods in agreement. “Do you want to learn how to make them?”

He nods excitedly, and for the next hour Bruce shows Richard how to mix and prepare the chemicals used in his personal recipe. More than once they accidentally set off a bit of the powder, filling the small lab station with smoke and sending them away in a coughing fit, laughing while they wait for the smoke to dissipate. But even with the aforementioned hiccups they’re able to get enough product to the final stage and ready to go inside the shells.

And as Bruce is adding the mix into some of the shells that Richard is holding someone joins them in the lab, standing just within Bruce's peripheral vision. “Oh, hello Selina.”

“We’re making smoke bombs,” Richard adds. His hands move away a bit and Bruce has to pull back before he can set off more smoke in the area.

“Cool story. I’m in labor.”

“What?” Bruce spills some of the mix and another wave of smoke begins choking out the air around the bench. He and Richard abandon their supplies and Bruce ushers Selina away from the be cloud of smoke. “You’re in labor? It’s November.”

There’s still three weeks before her due date. Three weeks of development, growth, but maybe they were wrong on the due date before? Or maybe she’s wrong now?

Selina grimaces and grips Bruce’s arm so tightly it hurts, and might even bruise. “Yep, pretty sure that's what this is.”

“Richard, go tell Alfred and have him call Miss Thompkins.” Richard nods and starts barreling for the stairs, and Bruce allows Selina to continue to brace herself against him until the contraction passes. “Can you walk?”

“Yeah, it passed.” She wipes her brow and lets Bruce lead her over to the medical wing of the Batcave. “That was  _ awful _ .”

“You've only really just started labor,” Bruce says. “How far apart are they?”

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “I was supposed to be able to  _ time _ that?”

“Give me one second.” Bruce lifts his watch up and reads the time aloud, “eight sixteen. Let me know when the next one starts.”

Selina hops up onto the gurney and Bruce frets about the medical space, finding things he thinks Lee will want once she's arrived.

“Isn't this the part where we sneak me into a hospital?”

“Home births aren't all that uncommon, and you're on a clean gurney.” He finds some blankets for Selina and a gown. “You'll want to change into this.”

“Great,” she sighs. “God if that's just the start I do  _ not  _ look forward to later.”

-

“It's already been two  _ hours _ ,” she groans.

“I read some labors can take an entire day,” Bruce says, which may not have been his best response. He's more than a little frazzled.

“If it's the stupid big head you passed on to it I'm going to throttle you,” she growls, tugging at the front of Bruce's shirt and getting him uncomfortably close to her very angry snarl.

“The epidural should start kicking in any minute now,” Lee assures Selina, although she does nothing to save Bruce from her attack.

This is definitely solidifying Ed’s lack of any desire to have a child, or at least to never deal with a birth mother of any sort. So far it’s been a messy, loud,  _ angry  _ affair, and he’d rather not have any part of it, which is why he’s done his best to not draw any attention to himself while the three of them are distracted by the inevitable arrival of the baby. It’s all for the best; he has work to do.

Ed watches the trio for a few more minutes before slipping back upstairs with a crate of supplies he grabbed from the workbench. He finds Oswald still in the study and he nods. “She's definitely in labor.”

“I think the entirety of Gotham can tell that,” Oswald says, well timed right before Selina begins yelling something neither can fully make out from upstairs. “Bruce is preoccupied?”

“Very.”

“Then let's get going.” He grabs a duffel bag of his own and tightens his grip on his cane. “I’ve been told in not so many words,” Gang, he means, “that we have a ride there and back, but we’re on our own.”

“Fine,” Ed says. He adjusts his hold on the crate and nods towards the entryway. “It’s easier to hide two people than an entire army.”

It’s also easier to overwhelm two people, not that a lack of support has ever stopped Ed in the past. He feels almost nostalgic; he hesitated in front of his wardrobe for at least five minutes considering slipping into his old green suit just for kicks, but that’s not the mindset he wants to be in tonight. They need to be calculated and careful, and while his moves were certainly convoluted as the Riddler he has to admit he neglected to factor in personal risk more than once when he was deep in the planning stages of a scheme.

So he settles for wearing all black. He’s left his cane in their bedroom so he can carry his case of various crime-aiding paraphernalia. He’ll need to prioritize once they arrive on the campus, but for now he can justify carrying nearly thirty pounds of freeze bombs, wiring kits and other electronic workarounds, tasers for himself and Oswald, and anything else he could get his hands on without making too much noise.

“I sincerely hope you have some sort of bag for all of that.”

“I do, in the case.” Oswald looks very weary for a second before he shakes off the feeling and opens the door for Ed. “Thank you.”

“Having a night out gentlemen?” Alfred asks, and Ed nearly drops the case on his feet. They both look at each other before turning towards him, and Ed gulps. “Looks like you have quite the load you’re bringing with you.”

“It never hurts to be prepared,” Oswald says, smiling somehow, and Ed puts his shoulders back to try and emulate his confident posture. “Don’t wait up.”

“I do trust you’re going  _ to  _ whatever it is you’re doing and not dragging it back here with you?”

Right. The baby. Ed clears his throat but Oswald beats him to it. “When have we  _ ever  _ brought trouble back with us?”

Alfred sighs. “Mr. Cobblepot-”

“We are not coming back here unless we are one hundred percent successful,” he says, grim, but also confident. “I promise.”

Alfred regards them both critically for another minute, maybe considering telling Bruce about their plan anyway, but he straightens out his posture to the ever obedient butler he’s normally expected to be and nods. “Have a safe trip, sirs.”

Gang doesn’t say anything when they get inside the back of the car, nor does she verify anything about where she’s taking them. Ed closes his eyes a moment and recalls the map he’d examined, noting the general slope of the hill behind the campus and any unnatural blockades that might be in their way. If the news reports were thorough, and after reading twenty of them he assumes at least one of them was, then the fence was destroyed by either Fries or Pike during their twin attack on PharmaGo.

“You’ll get a single call from me when we’re done. If the sun’s up and you’ve heard nothing, assume the worst and enact plan B.”

There’s no sense over planning what they’re about to do, so Ed focuses on packing up a sturdy, stiff walled backpack with as much as he can possibly fit without potentially sending himself backwards from the weight. Freeze bombs: 20. Coolant canisters: 4. Tasers: 2. Half face gas masks: 2. Smoke bombs: 30+, due to their small size and extremely useful nature. Zip ties: pack of 100, also incredibly versatile and useful. EMPs: 3, and a remote already tuned to the three separate frequencies for the EMPs. He slips a lock picking kit into one of the cargo pockets on his pants and a wiring kit in the other. He doesn’t remember grabbing some of Bruce’s Batarangs but he slips two of them into an outside pocket of the backpack for ease of use later.

“Up there,” he says, pointing to an old dirt road that goes around the campus towards some farmhouses and barns. “Stop where the two driveways intersect with the road.”

Ed leaves the remaining items in the case and pulls the backpack onto his shoulders. Once the car’s stopped he exits, using the door and the side of the car to pull himself up and adjust the straps until the weight is comfortably centered on his back. Oswald shoulders the duffel bag without difficulty, and he stands at the edge of the road and looks down on the campus below.

“Careful,” Gang says from inside the car. She’s rolling up the passenger window and driving away by the time Ed turns back to make sure he actually heard her express some measure of concern for the two of them.

“This mere man has attempted to terrorize me and mine for long enough,” Oswald says, loudly, and defiantly. He turns to Ed, and there’s a familiar fire in his eyes. “I think it’s about time the tables were turned, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Definitely,” Ed grins, and he takes out one of the tasers. The weight feels good in his hand; he only wishes he’d taken the time to find something a bit more threatening at long ranges.

The lack of any external guards isn’t surprising, nor is the lack of proper lighting, but the moon is full and bright, especially out here beyond the city limits, so Ed and Oswald have little trouble traversing through the tall grass behind the campus as they move down the hill towards one of the main buildings.

“The lab,” Ed says, indicating the largest back building. “It was the least damaged in the fire and ice.”

“Get us inside,” Oswald says, assuming the position to watch for any sort of response team. Ed slips the taser into one of his leg pockets and kneels on his good leg. He pulls out his lock picking kit, but upon further examination of the door he finds a keypad where the old lock must have been.

“Clever,” he mutters, but he’s prepared for this too. He pulls out the wiring kit and an EMP. “I have a little theory,” he tells Oswald. “Our friend must have added this new measure when they moved in.” He licks his lips and begins stripping away wire coatings and covers. “Three guesses as to whether or not it’s on its own circuit.”

“I know you’re trying to gloat but I really just want to get inside.”

“A separate circuit means,” he pauses as he attaches the EMP to the keypad and stands, “that I can shut it down without anything inside going dark. And why is this important?” He asks. “Well, I have a fun little idea I wanted to run by you.” He presses the button on his remote and there’s a moment of silence, then the unmistakable hissing and crackling of overcharged electricity, and after another ten seconds the keypad goes dark and Ed is able to pull the door open. “Why don’t we discuss it inside?”

“Cute,” Oswald pats Ed’s cheek as he steps into the lab. There’s no lighting inside, and Oswald switches on a small flashlight and keeps the beam near their feet. “I thought you said the inside  _ wasn’t  _ going dark.”

“In the basement. He couldn’t risk any sort of attention.” Ed begins walking just in front of Oswald’s beam of light, using the wall to follow the hallway, both physically and in the blueprint in his head.

“And when he discovers you’ve cut his power? What then?”

“I hit this again,” he says, holding up his remote. Oswald stops moving behind him and Ed turns. “What? I perfected the reusable EMP. The problem was rather silly in hindsight-”

Oswald drags him down into a fierce, intense kiss, and when he releases Ed he’s grinning up at him with pride. “You’re brilliant.”

“You’re biased,” he laughs. “If anything I’m  _ persistent _ .”

Oswald chuckles to himself and urges Ed to continue down the hall, but not even two steps into their walk he grabs Ed’s arm and turns off the light. They stand still and listen to the unmistakable hiss of gas. Ed’s eyes widen and he slings the backpack off, holding his breath as long as possible as he pulls out the two masks and hands one over to Oswald.

“Crane,” he mouths silently, and Oswald nods. As the hall fills with fear gas there’s an overwhelming, well,  _ fear,  _ but nothing changes aside from the general visibility, which was already poor at best.

There’s something very anticlimactic to Crane’s attacks when his gas doesn’t take effect, and they both wait patiently, hearing some odd thumps and some scraping of metal on drywall and linoleum, but it doesn’t sound at all frightening, and the way he’s laughing is rather pitiful. Ed pulls his taser back out for good measure, and Oswald pulls out one of the tranquilizer pistols.

Ed flattens himself against one of the walls, pulling the backpack out of the way and waiting for Crane to round the corner. The shuffle steps he’s taking are the only sound in the hall, getting closer, and louder, and if Ed was under any sort of gas influence he’d swear they’re coming from the direction they just came, but he catches the slightest shift in the shadows and gas down the way they’re  _ going _ , and just as Crane steps through a thick cloud Oswald switches on the flashlight.

The mask is grisly and unsettling, but Oswald switches the light back off just as quickly as he turned it on, and there’s a distinct yelp as the dart he shoots Crane’s way reaches its target.

“I know you were expecting something a bit more exciting,” Oswald’s voice is muffled by the mask but he is undeterred, “but I’m afraid we’re trying to be more efficient these days. I’d recommend you try it sometime.”

He grins when there’s a thump of Crane hitting the ground, and they approach cautiously. It wouldn’t be surprising to find any needles full of fear toxin on his person. But the precaution isn’t necessary, and Crane is motionless on the ground, properly sedated and no longer a threat. Still, while they’re being cautious, Ed takes some time to pull out a few zip ties and they make quick work of Crane’s gangly limbs.

“Please tell me we were never this theatrical.” His voice echoes against the firm plastic of his gas mask.

“Look who’s talking,” Oswald scoffs. “Don’t take that the wrong way. At least our theatrics got  _ results _ .”

“How flattering,” Ed hums. “We need to keep moving, this way.”

They continue down the hall, cautious in the low visibility caused by the fear gas. No one else appears as they reach a larger hall in the center of the building, one that probably used to have a ceiling but no longer does, and Ed closes his eyes for a moment while he recalls the location of the stairs. Admittedly, it's a bit more difficult with some of the walls missing and architectural landmarks warped from heat, but he opens his eyes and points to an alcove across the room.

It's a side staircase, one that used to need keypad access to use, but the lack of any sort of door in the doorway makes entering the tight space easy. Oswald’s can clicks on the cement stairs as they descend, and Ed quashes the urge to tell him to try and move more quietly. Their presence is surely known by now, even with the lack of any alarms. Once they reach the landing Ed pulls his mask off to save the limited filter use, and after a moment he nods to Oswald, who does the same.

The basement lab of the main building is split into three large separate spaces according to the blueprints, and it appears the first one used to house bulk manufacturing. Large, twisted metal and plastic is strewn around the edges of the room, shoved to the side by something large and strong to make way for several intact cloning tubes with, Ed realises with a gulp, a single person inside, or at least what will be considered a person following a bit more incubation. Along the wall to the right there’s several lab benches cleared of debris and cluttered with fluids and other important chemicals and tools to use with the clones.

He doesn't let himself get bogged down by too much visual input, only allowing himself to remember the number (6) and the fact that they’re alone, clones excluded of course.

“What happens to a clone if you shut off their equipment while they’re still in progress?” Oswald asks.

“They’d no longer be in progress,” Ed says plainly.

“Well, I’m not familiar with the tech, but I’d certainly hate to see Strange’s army grow by even a single person, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Definitely.” Ed grins and moves across the room to the tubes. Realistically all he needs to do is physically cut the wires connecting the tubes to the large power supplies in the wall, but the wires are thick and numerous, and even if Crane didn’t get a chance to alert the others that he’s failed to stop Ed and Oswald there’s no way Strange wouldn’t send someone else to go check, so time is very valuable.

And maybe he’s feeling a bit theatrical, but like Oswald said earlier, their theatrics get results, so he pulls out a second reusable EMP and begins using a boxcutter from his wire kit to carve into the drywall to get to the wires inside.

He almost doesn’t hear the low growling over the hum of the cloning tubes, but the deep baritone cuts through the white noise hum of the machines, and he turns to Oswald. He’s gaping silently, mouth working around his shock, and Ed follows his wide-eyed stare across the room, where he finds, “oh fuck.” Killer Croc, as in, seven foot and change, several hundred pounds of muscle and anger, and he’s in the room with them. “Os-”

Croc rushes forward and grabs Oswald in one of his large hands, pulling him up off the ground and grinning, or maybe sneering. “Too easy.”

Oswald struggles, and Ed frantically digs through the front of his bag, tossing aside smoke bombs and wires, hand over fist until he pulls out one of the Batarangs from the front pouch. He throws it, and it wobbles, but makes contact with Croc’s arm, and he throws Oswald aside, sending him flying with a startled shout and landing hard among a pile of dismantled machines and sharp metal objects. Oswald groans, and he doesn’t sit up, but he’s okay, he has to be okay, because Croc is still here and he’s focusing all of his anger on Ed.

“I’m sure we can do this quietly,” Ed blathers, keeping an eye on Croc as he stalks closer and digging his hands into the largest pocket of his backpack. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Oswald struggle up, and he keeps talking, hoping to buy them some precious seconds. “There’s no reason this has to be a violent altercation. We’re all civilized people,” he glances to Oswald and nods when he sees the tranquilizer pistol in his hand, “and I’m sure this can - Now!”

Oswald begins firing, but Croc’s skin is too tough and they keep bouncing off. But it’s enough to make him turn around, and Ed resumes his search of his bag for something,  _ anything  _ that will be able to stop him.

“What do you call a crocodile on ice?” he shouts, and Croc turns around in time for Ed to pull out one of the canisters of Fries’ coolant and spray it at his face. He howls, enraged and in pain. Ed turns to Oswald and whispers, “I don’t have an answer.”

“That is the  _ least  _ of our problems!” Oswald shouts. “Just, hurry, please,  _ now _ .”

Ed nods and reaches into the bag, pulling out a freeze grenade. He doesn’t know the radius, or how long the effects will last, but they have nothing else. Ed pulls out the safety pin and lobs it at Croc, and he closes his eyes and prays. Just don’t fill the room with ice. He’ll deal with literally any other result but there’s no way they’re escaping if they get encased.

It occurs to him that, possibly, having the time to think this means he’s  _ not  _ frozen, and when he opens his eyes he finds Croc motionless in the center of the room. The front half of his body is completely frozen.

“Thank God,” Ed sighs. “Oswald, are you alright?”

Oswald doesn’t respond, and when Ed turns to see why he finds Oswald scowling with disbelief. He turns to Ed and shrieks, “Killer Croc!? Really!?”

“The file Strange had on him didn’t suggest he already had him under control,” Ed says, but there’s no reason for him to believe that Croc is working for Strange willingly. He rests his head against the back wall and closes his eyes. “A taser isn’t really going to  _ cut  _ it this time. He’s not exactly our fan regardless of his alignment.”

“You think?” Oswald groans as he pushes himself up off the floor and picks up his bag. “We shouldn’t wait around for him to thaw.”

“Use this to ice his back.” Ed holds out a second grenade and Oswald limps over to take it, leaning heavily on his cane, which thankfully survived the throw. “ _ Are _ you alright?”

“I was thrown across the room, bodily, by someone that weighs more than both of us and these clones combined, and landed in a pile of scrap metal.” He sighs and touches the side of Ed’s head. “I don’t think I’m bleeding, and nothing’s broken, so don’t waste time worrying for now.”

Ed won’t call Oswald unscathed, because there’s a small cut on Oswald’s cheek, but he doesn’t see anything glaringly bad on Oswald’s front, and when Oswald takes the grenade and turns to Croc Ed doesn’t see anything on his back that raises any concerns. Bruises will heal, and any aches can be soothed away in a warm bath.

He returns his attentions to the wiring in the wall, and the six large cables all leading from the wiring to the tubes, but behind the large chunk of drywall he’s hacked away he sees more wires, several more actually, some of which disappear through the other side of the wall. “Everything’s on the same circuit.”

And it’s not like he was going to miss this detail when he was setting up before, but knowing this puts a very big damper on the rest of his plans for the evening. Ed shrugs to himself, disappointed but not entirely surprised. The infrastructure down here is relatively intact; there’s no reason to assume Strange had to do more than slightly modify the existing wiring.

“So cut the ones that matter,” Oswald says.

“Unless you brought gardening clippers I’m afraid I’m unprepared.” He shakes his head. “I’ll try one thing first.”

He grabs the half empty canister he used against Croc and sprays the coolant along the wires, but Strange must have had his concerns about Fries, because even a sharp smack with the heavy flashlight doesn’t snap away the frozen wires. His only options are to let the clones continue to develop, or cancel part of his plan in favor of at least crippling Strange’s operation a bit more.

He sets up the EMP along one of the smaller wires inside the wall. As he finishes attaching the wires and checks the frequency there’s a crack and a rush of cool air as Oswald freezes Croc’s back, and Oswald clears his throat. He’s tapping his foot impatiently when Ed glances over, and he quirks up one side of his mouth. “Ready to go?”

Ed nods and finishes repacking his bag. Then he stands, slinging it onto his back and moving over to Oswald. He takes a moment to examine Croc as he walks over, noting the thick coating of ice over his entire body. “He should be frozen for a few hours.”

“I sincerely hope we’re not still here after that long.”

“If we are I doubt it’s by choice,” Ed says. He takes out the remote control and hits the button for his second EMP as they leave the first lab space, and Oswald takes the flashlight and begins lighting the way.

The second space used to be some sort of R&D lab, but it’s been converted into a holding area, with makeshift cells made out of what appears to be repurposed plexiglass and scrap metal frames. The doors would be almost impossible to see if the design was well thought out, but the metal around the doors is rather prominent, and screams ‘prototype’ to Ed. Most of the cells are empty, but as Ed and Oswald make their way through someone scrambles up from the floor of the last cell and bangs on the plexiglass.

“Hey!” Barbara shouts, banging louder, and Oswald bangs back just as loudly with the butt of his pistol, aiming it through one of the small holes in the glass.

“Seems like you did a bit of underestimating,” Oswald tells her, motioning to make her back up from the wall. “Namely us, and I’d say that includes a bit of overestimation on your trust in Strange.”

“You can’t just leave me in here,” she hisses. “He didn’t hold up his end of the  _ deal _ ,” she insists, and Oswald rolls his eyes. “He didn’t! You two weren’t supposed to even see them  _ coming _ . He told me they were the  _ best _ .” She’s stamping her foot, getting increasingly agitated, and Oswald’s clearly tired of her, because he scoffs and walks towards the next doorway. “Eddie, come on,” she coos, moving back to the wall. “We had a hell of a time back in the day. Lots of mayhem and laughs. What do you say?” He continues staring at her, not even feigning interest in her pleas, and her sweet, pleading demeanor turns angry fast, and she’s back to pounding on the wall. “Get back here!”

Ed reaches back into one of the side pockets of his backpack and pulls out a single dart, hiding it in his palm and moving closer. “Are you suggesting we trust you?”

“If you don’t let me out of here,” she looks to her right, and Ed follows her gaze up to a camera, “I’ll make a scene.”

“Interesting,” he mutters, “but someone else will come regardless of whether or not you ‘make a scene’,” Ed says. And there’s the convenient lack of power, although Barbara’s lack of awareness might mean she’s being kept in the dark,  _ literally  _ this time.

“He’s in a secret room,” she blurts out, and Ed blinks, “but I’m not going to tell unless you help me out. See, you need me.”

“I have a lock pick,” he says, ignoring Oswald’s sputtering protests as he reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a single pick. “The lock is crude, it may take some time.” He kneels by it and begins to work his way into Barbara’s cell. “This isn’t his best work. Shoddy construction.”

“You try getting Killer Croc to give a damn about aesthetics,” she says. “Don’t look so glum bird boy,” she coos. “I’ll play nice.”

Ed swings open the plexi-door of her cell and quickly slaps his hand onto her shoulder, embedding the dart into her arm. She gasps, and the tranquilizer works fast, dropping her to her knees almost instantly, and leaving her floundering until it knocks her out entirely in a matter of seconds.

“Charming offer, but no thanks,” he says under his breath. He turns to Oswald. “Ready?”

“You could have given her some more time to tell us about this secret room of Strange’s,” he scoffs.

“You mean the lab office?” Ed asks. He shrugs. “It’s in the blueprints, or, the ones I was able to access using Bruce’s computer. There can’t have been any new additions to the basement without someone taking notice, so any ‘secret’ is part of the existing infrastructure.” Although he is grateful for the confirmation. He’d had a few theories that Strange would be here, hiding just beyond Gotham’s city limits, but close enough to still have quick access to anything his heart, or research, desires.

“So he  _ is  _ here?” Oswald asks.

“Most likely.”

“Good.” Oswald holds the next door open for Ed and they enter the third, and largest, lab space. “I’ve been waiting a long time to get that man within arm’s reach again.”

This room is the least renovated, although Ed can see it having great potential down the line. There’s a large, open space with a recessed floor, perfect for some of Gotham’s above average sized rogues, and most of the actual room is untouched, completely scorch free and showing no sign of potential collapse. Underneath the catwalk above the recessed floor Ed can see a large computer and several screens, all blinking and lit up as if he didn't just fry the clones’ power and what he thought was the rest of the building's remaining electrical system. It's only upon further examination that he sees the large generator behind the computer, and realises that Strange's precaution is going to be the reason Ed's plan is still possible.

As they descend into the lower half of the room there’s a hiss and crackle of a speaker coming alive, and while Oswald keeps moving Ed freezes in place. “Os, Os wait.”

“I see the two of you have made,” Strange pauses, “adequate work of my associates. I’m afraid they aren’t really my best. You’ll have to give me a few more weeks if you want a real challenge.”

Oswald shines his light in the corners of the room, glaring, and Ed moves closer to him, grasping one hand on the strap of his bag. He grounds himself there, focusing on Oswald, only Oswald. There's a few graying hairs along his temple; he hasn't gotten a chance to dye his hair recently.

“I never was, am always to be. No one ever saw me, no one ever will.”

“Tomorrow,” Ed gasps out, releasing Oswald and backing away, looking for something heavy or sharp or-

“Relax,” Strange says. He stills. “I’m very glad to finally have your full attention Mr. Nygma. And please, slip that pack off. I can't imagine you’ll be needing the hindrance.”

Mr. Nygma lets his bag fall to the ground and he stretches his shoulders. There's someone in the room yelling at him, muffled, the words slipping out of his awareness before he can ever process them. Strange's voice is clear as a bell, and calming. “Now, I'd like you to bring Mr. Cobblepot into the holding area. Do be somewhat gentle. I want his physical and mental capacities, mostly intact, although you are granted to use some force if he resists.”

He turns his head and focuses his full attention onto Mr. Cobblepot. Something in the back of his head twinges, screams, but it never becomes clear why so he ignores the distraction. Mr. Nygma takes a step closer, and another. His target doesn't appear to be backing away.

“Take as much time as you need,” Strange grants him, and the hiss and crackle fades away.

The man's mouth forms words, Mr. Nygma focuses on the way his lips purse and widen, and then he grabs Mr. Nygma's arm, jerking him forward to close the gap between them. Mr. Nygma grapples with him, grabbing at his shirt, the collar, and Mr. Cobblepot aims low, going for his knee. He struggles against his target’s attack, attempting to bring his leg up in a kick, but there’s a brief, painful jolt against his leg, and more crackling, and he gasps, blinking-

“Os,” he grimaces as pain lances into his head, doubling over and retching. Ed braces himself against Oswald’s arms- his target lets him get so close- he pushes against the solid wall in his head trying to slam down on his cognitive function and keens.

“Lay down, come on Ed just lay down it will make this easi-” the voice muffles again and Mr. Nygma grips Mr. Cobblepot’s shirt, dragging him forward in an attempt to disrupt his balance. He opens his eyes and focuses on Mr. Cobblepot’s face, not hearing the words but watching the way his eyes appear wet and he mouths something Mr. Nygma can’t quite parse, and then the jolt is stronger, this time against his side, and doesn’t go away, and his vision goes black.

He blinks up at a dingy, grimy basement ceiling and touches his face, his chest, and the strong, familiar arm near his left ear. Ed clutches at the fingers spread over his heart and drags them off of him, not comfortable with how they make him aware of his hummingbird heartbeat at the moment. There’s an uncomfortable trembling in his legs and a full body ache he didn’t have a few minutes ago; the results of a powerful electric shock courtesy of the taser he’d left in his pocket.

“Can you hear me?” Oswald asks, and Ed looks up at him, reaching for his cheek with his left hand while his right holds onto Oswald’s in a death grip. “Ed?”

“Os-” he chokes out, reaching more insistently now, grasping, and Oswald helps him sit up.

He holds out something for Ed, telling him to, “put these in, please.”

Ed grabs the tiny case and tries to open it, struggling to get his shaking fingers to cooperate, and when he succeeds he finds two earplugs inside. He sobs, but he listens to Oswald, and once they’re both securely in place Ed is surrounded by a blissful quiet and strong, warm arms holding him steady. There’s a soft rumble against his temple, unheard words of comfort and reassurance gently vibrating against his skull. Ed would be perfectly content if he was never made to move from this spot ever again.


	37. Chapter 37

But he knows they can’t stay. Ed sits up and clutches his hands into Oswald’s shirt, focusing on the way it creases and folds under his grip. It’s blurry. He’s not sure when his glasses were removed, but he imagines it was Oswald’s doing.

There’s a hand on his cheek, lifting his face up until he’s looking directly at Oswald’s face. Ed watches his mouth form, “can you understand what I’m saying? You can read lips, right?”

“Yes,” he says. “I can read lips.”

“Good,” Oswald smiles and his shoulders sag with relief. “Good. Leave those in.” As if Ed had any inclination to pull the earplugs out. “Do you want to go? Ambitious plans aside, I wouldn’t be heartbroken if we decided to cut our losses and left before anything  _ else  _ went sour.”

Ed studies Oswald’s open, honest expression, and he looks over Oswald’s shoulder at the monitors and their soft glow. There really isn’t much more Strange can do to him now, but there’s  _ so much  _ Ed still can, and wants to, do to Strange. “We’re staying, for now.”

Oswald pulls something out of his pocket, Ed’s glasses, and slips them into Ed’s hand. “I’ll keep watch, of course.”

Ed nods, and they both struggle to their feet. There’s a heavy limp to Oswald’s gait, and he’s favoring his cane now more than ever, but he brushes off Ed’s concern with a vague gesture and mouths, “I fell wrong, but it’s nothing a warm bath won’t fix.”

The computer screens light up bright when Ed begins typing at the single keyboard, flashing requests for passwords and security clearances, and he gets to work. Oswald keeps watch just like he said he would, but he also keeps a hand on Ed at all times, moving it from his shoulder to the back of his neck, occasionally sifting it up into the short hairs on the back of his head.

It’s delicate work, but nothing he isn’t ready to handle. Strange excels in science and lab work and psychology, but Ed’s been binging computer knowledge ever since they became commonplace. There’s just so much freedom, so many possibilities at his eager fingertips, and he marvels at how simple the man’s security measures end up being. He’d geared himself up for one of the most difficult hack jobs of his life, not some half-assed, obviously self-made security measure he bets  _ Richard  _ could get around without really trying.

It’s so refreshing to see Strange make such an obvious,  _ human  _ mistake, and Ed is going to make him pay dearly for it.

Oswald taps Ed’s shoulder, leaning down and mouthing, “what are you doing exactly?”

“Making Strange the newest pariah of Gotham,” Ed says. He gains access to the digital copies of Strange’s research notes next and begins skimming the pages. “And paying credit where credit is due.”

As Ed suspected, the notes are comprehensive, and the procedures he finds are understandable, repeatable, and skimming them brings Ed back to his early college career and late nights spent reading scientific paper after scientific paper. He’d read thousands by the time he graduated, and written some himself. It would be a shame to let Strange put so much effort into his papers without giving him the proper credit for his CV. De-scrubbing a document is just as easy as scrubbing it when he has access to the original.

“Oswald, I need something from my bag,” he says. “In the front pocket there should be several jump drives, if you wouldn’t mind getting them.”

He doesn’t look away to see if Oswald says anything in response, but the absence of his hand is enough to make Ed believe he’s gone to do what he asked. It leaves him feeling itchy, but he can’t waste a second away from the computer if he wants to find something truly damning. The papers are good, but without the raw data they’re just  _ theory  _ at best, something Strange could brush off easily enough with his charisma and status. Still, he copies them once Oswald returns with the drives. It never hurts to be thorough.

Oswald stiffens beside him, and Ed glances up, but he shakes his head, indicating his ear, and he posits Strange must’ve turned the PA system back on, possibly to demand something of him, as if he has the  _ right _ . Ed doubles his efforts, digging past the endless documents and digitized files on Gotham’s rogues,  _ certain _ there must be some sort of concrete evidence lurking somewhere on the computer.

And oh, does he find it, buried in nested folders and tucked away on a passworded partition. Ed finds the raw data, and there is a  _ lot  _ of it to sift through. Videos, photos, endless spreadsheets with what appear to be countless vital signs and graphs; he’s found his way into the heart of Strange’s research, and it’s all just sitting here, ripe for the taking, and Ed begins taking as much as he can possibly fit onto the drives, switching them out as fast as he’s able. When one’s fit to metaphorically burst from having so much copied onto it he switches to the next, giving each a simple name indicating what can be found inside.

“Jim Gordon is going to be rather busy when he sees this,” Ed says quietly. Oswald squeezes his shoulder tightly, and when Ed glances up he sees the bright, feral grin, shining in the bright white computer screen light.

As his last drive reaches its capacity Ed can feel his energy waning. Oswald leans down and says something against his temple, words rumbling but inaudible. Ed tips his head back against Oswald’s chest, only able to parse out, “go now,” and a quick quirk of Oswald’s smile before it presses into a firm line. He jerks his head to the side and Ed sits up long enough to remove the final drive and shoves them all into his pants pocket. He looks to Oswald, watching him form, “have one last thing, if you’re alright with a quick pit stop.”

Ed reaches down for his backpack and pulls it onto his back, groaning as his body seems to fully embrace the full body ache he was able to ignore while digging through Strange’s files. “Where?”

“Well, that blowhard has been demanding you see him in his office for the last half hour.” Oswald rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “I would definitely enjoy surprising the man myself, but I won’t make you.”

Ed grips the straps of his bag and nods, doing his damndest to solidify an angry scowl in lieu of the wibbling he let himself do earlier. “Do it.”

Logic is screaming at him to reconsider, to just  _ let this go _ and turn around, but he steels himself and slings his bag to his front long enough to pull out a fresh canister of coolant. He follows Oswald to a wall underneath the catwalk and Oswald feels along it, mouth working around what Ed assumes are swears and frustrated growls. He only lets Oswald struggle for a moment before he reaches up high and presses a small bulge in the wall, which releases some sort of mechanism and a secret door opens a crack.

Oswald regards the door with a very unimpressed face for a moment before he pulls it open the rest of the way and leads them into a small, dark room. The only light is from a small desk lamp on a cherrywood desk, and Strange is there, clutching at a microphone and gaping up at them.

Oswald is providing Ed with a physical barrier between himself and Strange, but it means he can’t see whatever haughty, flippant thing he’s telling Strange right now. But Ed can guess, based on the way he cocks his head to one side and gestures, that he would enjoy the witty banter.

“I can see you still fail to take your own peril seriously,” Strange mouths, slow and steady. “I’ll be sure to make note in your file.”

Oswald leans forward a bit and Strange leans back in response. He straightens back up and gestures to Ed, turning back part way to wink at him and then turn back.

Strange recovers from whatever Oswald just told him quickly. “I expect this is a revenge plan you’ve concocted. An attempt to kill me for crossing your path?”

Ed sincerely  _ hopes  _ he didn’t just spend the better part of an hour digging up evidence of Strange’s very real, very punishable crimes just to watch his husband flat out murder him in a basement of a ruined building, but he has to admit he wouldn’t be too disappointed.

Oswald appears to be rambling a bit, tilting his head this way and that, explaining something to Strange in a clear, commanding tone. He’s so confident like this, so in control, and Ed takes a small step towards him, just to try and feel the excited energy rolling off him. Oswald reaches back without looking and pats his chest.

“My research is groundbreaking,” he mouths. “The compulsions and aggression of some of Gotham’s worst criminals can be controlled, and used to stop the senseless violence you and yours are so prone to inciting.”

“We’re retired,” Ed says, growling.

Oswald says something that makes Strange’s face blanche. He reaches into his duffel bag and pulls out a pistol, but as Ed examines it in the low light he realizes it isn’t the tranquilizer pistol from earlier, but an actual, bullet filled pistol, and he watches silently as Oswald begins pointing it at various places on Strange’s body.

“If you don't plan to kill me,” Strange pauses, “the gun is a poor choice, with your level of impulse control.”

He focuses on Strange's leg, the left one, and then his stomach, which sends a pang through Ed's, but that doesn't seem right. He has no qualms about Strange taking a non-lethal bullet. Then he moves it to Strange's shoulder, just outside the lethal area, and Ed sees the logic behind the targets, exclaiming with a soft, “oh.”

There's a kind of calm that appears to wash over Oswald, a full body relaxation that Ed can almost feel. His muscles are loose, the cut of his clothes is no longer straining against any stress, and when Oswald pulls the trigger Ed only hears the faintest pop of the cartridge as it ignites, and the bright flash as the tiny explosion sends it into Strange's arm. But as Ed watches for the blood it never appears; Oswald had to have used a blank. Granted it'll still bruise up his shoulder at this range, but it's hardly the lethal threat Oswald could be toting.

Oswald turns towards Ed before he speaks, clearly wanting Ed to know what he has to say. “Remember that I was the bigger man and let you go free, unscathed, by my choice alone. I'd recommend you accept this for the blessing it is and do your best to stay away from me and mine.” He smiles. “I guess I'm just full of surprises now aren't I?” He pulls something out of his bag and presses it into Ed's hand, the non-lethal pistol, and he tells him, “it would be best if he couldn't attempt to rally anyone we haven't encountered, wouldn't you agree?”

Ed's hand is shaking a bit, but he aims his gaze and the pistol at Strange, and with a sturdy, warm hand touching his back he fires a dart into the man's neck, watching as the sedative takes control that leaves him slumping bonelessly onto the desk surface.

_ This feels _ , Ed pauses his thinking, searching for the right word,  _ it feels odd. _

Oswald pulls Ed from the room and faces him head on, touching his face and neck, soothing him for some reason. Ed raises a shaking hand to hold one of Oswald’s in place. He doesn't look triumphant, or victorious or any other word Ed wants to describe him as. He looks tired, beaten down in more ways than one, and Ed imagines he must mirror his in some way, hence the gentle treatment.

“You never planned to kill him, did you,” Ed says.

“I know you couldn't hear, but I've decided it would be a shame to cause Jim to lose his job because I was feeling petty.” He pulls Ed down and kisses him, keeps him in place so their foreheads rest together, and Ed sighs. This isn't the grand exit he was hoping for, but the fact that it's an exit at all should feel comforting. It doesn't, not in the way he imagined, but they aren't really in a position to be picky. They're alive and they'll recover, and he should feel grateful for that fact.

He keeps one hand on Oswald and the other clutching the canister of coolant, ready, if not willing, to blast anyone in their way as they attempt to leave this chapter behind them.

-

There’s something oddly whimsical about being awake at five in the morning, or maybe that’s just a combination of too much coffee and having been awake for about five hours more than he expected.

Bruce knows he should try to capitalize on sleep right now, that there’s a finite number of hours he’s going to get in his life and they’re all going to revolve around the small, squirming bundle in the bassinet beside him, but he’s either too wired from the caffeine or just wired because there’s a brand new, tiny person in his life now, so he continues to drink from a large mug of coffee and runs a finger over the soft blanket covering his son’s legs.

“I see that Miss Kyle is sleeping rather soundly,” Alfred says as he approaches. Bruce glances over at him and nods. “I do wonder why you’ve chosen not to do the same, sir. I can tell you with first hand experience that you’re going to regret not taking advantage of this while you have the chance.”

“I don’t think I’m actually tired.”

“No I suppose not. I was going to say you look exhausted.” He clasps a hand over Bruce’s shoulder. “You do realize he’ll still be there when you wake up Master B.”

“Do you remember feeling this way?” He asks, looking away long enough to finish off the last of his mug of coffee.

“Delirious and sleep deprived? Yes, I seem to remember a night or several where a certain young master refused to stay asleep.” Bruce laughs under his breath. “If you’re going to insist on staying up you might as well get yourself some breakfast, sir, unless you’d like me to prepare something.”

“I can do it, thank you.” And there’s coffee in the kitchen. He would like another cup or two. “You should sleep Alfred. I’m sure I’ll come find you with questions sooner rather than later.”

“Now that the shouting in my basement is finished I think I will Master B. Try to at least nap if the coffee stops working miracles.”

“I will.” He stands, intending to follow Alfred out, but he hesitates while he stands over the bassinet. After some extensive internal debating he determines that nothing should go awry if he’s gone for a few minutes. At worst he may wake Selina, although she’s shown no signs of being conscious for a few hours now. As a precaution he finds one of the baby monitors Alfred ordered for him and attaches the portable listener to the waistband of his pants.

He descends the main staircase, thinking about coffee and what food he’s able to prepare the fastest, when he finds Ed and Oswald standing over a large suitcase and muttering quietly to one another. Bruce coughs politely as he reaches the last step and they both startle, turning to him and moving to stand in front of the suitcase. Their clothes are rumpled and torn in some places, and the two of them look haggard, exhausted, and he considers offering them coffee.

Bruce takes in a steady breath and notes the other bags near the door, and asks, “are you leaving?”

Ed steps forward and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a plastic bag full of flash drives and holding them out towards Bruce. “These are for you.”

“What are those?”

Ed sighs. “I assume you mean the contents,” he says. “We’ve sent a copy to the desk of James Gordon, Gotham Police Commissioner, with a note explaining everything. These are copies of the files for your personal file on Strange.” Bruce looks for the nearest surface to set down his empty mug and takes the drives from Ed, skimming over the notes scribbled on the surface in black marker. “A fair warning, quite a lot of it is rather upsetting, considering your past experiences.”

“Where did you get this?” He looks to Oswald for some clarification, but he’s standing back, and Ed only shakes his head. “How did you get this, Ed?”

Neither man looks like they’re in the mood to walk Bruce through their time step by step, but with a bit more coaxing Ed at least gives him a location. “PharmaGo. The old campus. He renovated the old lab building.”

“You went there tonight?”

“I’m sure you’re all sorts of miffed that we didn’t alert you to our plans,” Oswald takes over, which Ed seems thankful for. “Consider it our going away present.”

“You normally get those for the people leaving,” Bruce corrects him, and Oswald shrugs. “So you are leaving the Manor.”

“We're leaving Gotham,” Ed corrects. Bruce's mouth drops open with surprise. “It's nothing you've done.”

“You were an excellent host,” Oswald says, “but this needs to be done. A change of scenery will do us both a world of good.”

“This just feels rather sudden.”

“Well let me reassure you by saying it isn't. We've already gotten our ducks in a row. The only thing left is to depart.” Oswald holds out a hand to Bruce. “You’ve proven to be a wonderful ally and friend.”

As Bruce reaches for Oswald’s hand there's some soft cooing and crying from the device on his hip. He pauses and retracts his hand, turning down the volume before he says, “you should come see him, unless you have to leave immediately.”

They both exchange a look before Ed says, “we have a few hours.”

“I'm not trying to trick you into staying,” he assures them. “I can't imagine Strange is very happy with you.”

“He can be unhappy as much as he likes as long as he knows his place.” Oswald sounds very stuffy, but also confident in himself, standing tall and sturdy, and keeping one hand on Ed's slumped, curled over back. “We can spare a half hour or so to marvel at an infant.”

Bruce takes a short detour to get some more coffee for himself and use the formula maker Alfred set up during a lull in Selina's labor. He's thankful there's only one button he needs to press; he thought he still had a few weeks to learn things like this.

He finds Ed and Oswald standing near the nursery door, and now that he’s upstairs Bruce can hear the tiny wails from inside. There’s a brief tug at his heart and he feels his eyes misting, but he partially blames his over emotional reaction on being over caffeinated and a lack of sleep. The other part he hasn’t bothered to label yet but lumps the feelings together in a vague “fatherhood” category and leaves it at that.

Bruce sets his coffee down on the nearby window sill and sets the bottle in the bassinet long enough to pick up his son and cradle him in the crook of one arm. He feels too big when he does this, like he’s overlarge and not made to handle something so small and fragile.  After a bit of fussing his son is done being a squirming little thing and settles down, and Bruce presents him to Ed and Oswald. “He's only a few hours old.”

“I can't imagine you haven't come up with a name,” Oswald says, peering down at the bundle.

“Patrick,” Bruce says. “It's a family name.”

“You're almost definitely the father,” Ed says, and he draws his finger in a circle around Patrick's head, “based on this.”

Bruce starts laughing so hard he has to shift Patrick so he doesn't drop him, and Ed and Oswald share a brief confused look while he collects himself. “Sorry,” he says this to Patrick, who's very bewildered and fully awake now, and explains his outburst to Ed and Oswald, “people keep saying I gave him a big head. It's not really funny unless you know that.”

“I meant to indicate his facial features,” Ed says, “although I suppose head circumference is also passed on, though it isn't near as obvious as a fill nose or particular eye colors.” Patrick blinks a few times, scowling at all of them. “Although don’t consider eye color just yet. That’s likely to change as his melanin levels increase.”

“You're both more than welcome to hold him,” Bruce says. They both give him very reluctant looks and Oswald flat out shakes his head. “I've seen you handle delicate chemicals in a lab on multiple occasions, Ed.”

“I prefer the chemicals,” he says.

“It isn’t that we’re worried we’re going to  _ want  _ one if we hold it,” Oswald explains, “but there are several questionable things on our clothes after our little jaunt up to PharmaGo. I’m sure you don’t want one of your son’s first life experiences to be a possible decontamination because one of us  _ fell  _ into something harmful.”

Bruce gives their rumbled, messy clothes another good look, and the lack of any stains or blood is comforting, but Oswald's comment is not. “Did you fall into something harmful?”

“Only if you count scrap metal.”

“I think most people would count that.”

“Nevertheless,” Oswald holds out a hand, “we’re going to err on the side of caution.” Bruce juggles Patrick into one arm and shakes Oswald’s hand, then Ed’s. “We’ll keep in touch.”

“Don’t,” Bruce says. “Not right away. If you’re in need of a project, Ed, you can work on setting up some sort of secure channel we can communicate on. In the meantime as long as I don’t hear anything bad I’ll assume you’re both doing well.”

-

If someone hadn’t kicked the foot of the bed Bruce wouldn’t have woken up at all, but the sudden sound and movement startles him, and he sits up, looking over his shoulder at Selina as she rubs her foot and tries to swear under her breath.

“Did you need something?” Bruce asks, rubbing at his eyes as he tries to rouse himself. He blinks them open and takes in Selina's guilty look, and her fully dressed attire. “Where are you going?”

“I'm leaving.”

“If you need something we don't have I can get it for you.” He sits up fully and cracks his back. “It isn't an inconvenience.”

“Okay, you're still not getting it.” She sighs and sits on the end of the bed. “I'm leaving, Bruce. I'm not going out to get a snack.”

Bruce's brow creases in confusion. “You had a baby two days ago, why would you accept a job? I can support-”

“Stop! Just stop! I know you understand me! I'm leaving, and I'm not going to come back, okay?” She rests her head in her hands, and Bruce feels his stomach bottoming out. “I don't know if you're being clueless on purpose or if something is seriously wrong with you.”

Bruce pulls his legs close to his chest and takes a shuddering breath. “We just had a baby.”

“Yeah I  _ know  _ that, Bruce, and I know I told you from the  _ start  _ that this wasn't becoming some domestic fantasy of yours.”

“Then why did you go through with it? I told you I didn't want to influence your decision.” Selina is quiet for a minute, and she shrugs one shoulder, which makes Bruce's anger flare up in his chest. “What does that even mean?”

“Do you have any idea how much you've wanted a family?” she asks. “I've watched you for months while you see this scary, unknown thing getting closer, and you always looked so sure and excited, like it was this great, I don't know, like a calling. You should see how you are with Richard sometime. It's like you're a whole new person.” She shakes her head. “And I  _ tried  _ okay. I tried to figure out how you were feeling, but I couldn't. It never felt good or right, and I tried to tell you that so many times, but you either didn't hear me or you thought I'd change my mind once he got here, but I didn't. I don't  _ want  _ to stay here.”

Bruce gulps in deep lungfuls of air to keep his panic well contained in his chest rather than lashing out. He has to think, to organize his thoughts, but a tiny little life was just brought into his and his mental picture of what that would be like is being torn to shreds right in front of him. “So you were going to leave without saying anything? Just like that?”

“I guess I was dreading how you'd react,” she says. “I'm not saying it was right, okay? But I'm not going to  _ not  _ go just because you caught me.”

“Why can’t we talk about this?”

“We had seven months to talk about this, but every time I suggested I wasn’t going to be here you brushed it off.” She turns towards him and sits cross legged on the foot of his bed, one hand resting on the diminished curve of her stomach. “You kept assuming I was just scared. You need to stop doing that, and not just with me. You’re not always right, and you’re really,  _ really  _ bad at figuring out how people feel.”

Bruce covers his face and presses on his eyes, fighting the urge to break down when he just needs to be sensible, and honest. He needs to tell her the truth; she needs to understand how wrong this decision is for them, and how much he needs her. “I love you,” he says. And he means it. “I do. I love you.”

Selina’s expression doesn’t change. “No you don’t, Bruce.”

He huffs. “You just told me I shouldn’t tell you how you feel, so why should you tell me how I feel?”

She sighs. “You’re right, okay.” She runs a hand through her hair, causing a curl to stick out a bit. “Why do you love me?”

His train of thought flatlines. “What?”

“Because I know you think you love me, but you’re scared and I get it. You want me to stay. But you don’t love  _ me _ , Bruce. You have this perfect, wonderful person inside your head that you keep thinking of as me, but it’s just this fake person wearing my face.”

He tunes her out for a second, searching, because he wouldn’t just proclaim he loves her for no reason, or worse, just to manipulate her. There’s her face, her curls, but those are superficial, things that can and will change over time, and it’s not a good basis for love. Attraction, sure, he’s always found her attractive, but he  _ does  _ love her, he has to.

“You’re strong,” he blurts out. Selina blinks. “Your strength, not just physical, but emotional too. It always feels like you’re in control of yourself even when you’re upset or angry. And you’re fiercely independent, but you know when you’re in over your head, and you aren’t afraid to ask for help.”

“Okay,” she says, mulling his response over. He takes in a few wet, thick breaths and tries to emulate some of her strength. “Bruce if that’s what you love about me, how did it ever give you the impression that I would stay?”

“I don’t understand.”

“You just said I’m fiercely independent and you’re not sure how that could have been a clue? I don’t believe that; you’re smarter than that.” Bruce tries to look away but she lifts his face. “It’s going to hurt to hear this, okay, but I’m being honest with you. I don’t love you.” He sucks in a breath. “I care about you so much Bruce, but before I ended up pregnant we were, what? A fling? You dropped in unannounced to my place and we fooled around, but we weren’t really dating. We weren’t exclusive. And even if I did stay we’d just make each other miserable. Maybe not in a year, but eventually we’d hate each other, and I’d leave anyway. I can’t do that to you or him, so I’m going to leave now.”

“We can try,” he croaks. “We know what to avoid, what to consider-”

“I’m  _ not  _ going to do that to you. Bruce we don’t want the same thing. You want a family, and I don’t. There’s nothing we can do to work around that.” She swipes a finger under his eye and Bruce flinches away. Selina takes back her hand and stands up from his bed. “I know this sucks to hear, but I’m doing this because I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not doing a very good job,” he snaps.

“I know, but believe me, it would be so much worse if I left later.” One corner of her mouth quips up briefly. “And you can hate me for leaving, just don’t take it out on the little guy. He’s gonna look up to you big time.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” he says. “I will  _ never  _ do that.”

“I believe you.”

“Selina,” he starts, but there’s a tiny, high pitched wailing coming from the baby monitor on his bedside table, and he picks it up, turning down the volume and rocketing out of bed. “He’s probably hungry. Please, just wait here, and I’ll bring him in. We can talk about this.”

“There’s nothing else to talk about Bruce,” she marvels at him, shaking her head. “I’m not staying. That’s it.”

“Just please, Selina,” he holds up his hands. “Please.”

He hurries out of his bedroom and into the nursery, carefully scooping Patrick up out of the bassinet and shushing him as he speed walks back to his bedroom, but he stops just in the doorway, struggling to keep his composure as he stares into the empty room. Patrick continues to wail at full volume, probably waking the entire mansion, but Bruce can only stare straight ahead as the curtains for his bedroom window billow and sway in the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy cow I still can't believe that A) this was as long as it was and B) it's actually complete!  
> Thank you all for reading while it was still a WIP! There will be an epilogue later on, but the story itself ends here for Bruce's and Ed's POVs.


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've had the stupid joke at the end of this epilogue in my head for nearly half a year so now you all have to suffer with me over it

It’s only due to good fortune that he encounters Selina on her way off the property.

Alfred is feeling a bit too wound up to sleep properly, something likely due to anticipation of the inevitable parenting he'll be doing once the charm of a new baby wears off and Bruce wants to sleep again, but the resulting insomnia means he can get ahead of a few of the chores that are bound to begin piling up in the future. He's keeping himself busy reorganizing the garage when Selina slips through the back door, fully dressed and ready to most likely hotwire one of the many vehicles. He watches her approach one of the more bland cars in the garage, a sleek black four door manual, and he coughs a few times to get her attention. Seconds after Alfred clears his throat he’s overcome with a sense of deja vu at the sight of Selina letting her shoulders sag in defeat for a few seconds before turning around with a very strong, very overdone sense of defiance changing the set of her shoulders and morphing her face into something hard and angry. “Going somewhere, Miss Kyle?”

“Yeah, why?” she sighs, “are you planning on yelling at me too?”

“Not unless you’re planning on stealing one of these vehicles,” he assures her, and as he’d hoped it seems to soothe away some of her tense posture. “I’m sure you got more than your fair share from Master Bruce.”

She looks at him quizzically as he continues to straighten up some riding gear for Bruce's motorcycles. “So you’re  _ not  _ going to lecture me?”

“Certainly not.” She looks incredibly wary of him when he looks up from the various helmets and boots and he can’t seem to hold in a well executed eye roll at her suspicion. “You’re giving me the impression that you  _ want  _ some sort of lecture.”

“No,” she scoffs, “just expected you to do it anyway. Something about responsibility, or parenthood, or whatever.”

“You made your stance perfectly clear right from the start.” He turns away from the equipment to give her his full attention, lest she try to slip away or think he's being dismissive. “Miss Kyle, there is going to come a time when he has to learn that just because he’s come to a logical conclusion for himself that it doesn’t mean it will always be the logical choice for others. Would have preferred if it came about because of something a bit less life changing, but,” he lets himself trail off and shrugs a bit, letting a few of his formalities slip away for the barest moments before straightening his posture. “You’ve known the man for over half his life at this point. I’m sure you understand.”

“I think what I  _ understand _ , is that he’s pretty pissed at me.”

“True, and he certainly has a right to be. This isn’t some squabble about a heist you’re trying to pull, it’s about your son.” Alfred doesn’t see the sense in lying; as he said, she’s known him half his life. And despite knowing Selina for half of hers Alfred is pleasantly surprised she seems to actually be listening to him. There may be hope for Bruce yet. Alfred turns away from her long enough to unlock the spare key box and select the set for the car Selina was approaching before, and when he turns and she hasn’t left he tosses the set to her. She winces a bit, but catches the set after a slight lunge. “Try not to scratch it up too terribly while it’s in your possession.”

She taps the unlock button on the key fob and the lights turn on once. “You know, for a stuffy butler you’re being pretty cool about all this.”

“I’m touched,” he deadpans. Selina moves around to the driver’s side of the car and Alfred follows. “You won’t be needing anything else before you go? Quick raid of the pantry? Sundries?”

She shakes her head and pulls open the car door. “Nygma’s got something waiting for me at his old office. He has shit for me to do out of state, so remind the kid to feed my cats, okay? I left him a note.”

“I’m sure Young Master Grayson is capable.” Alfred shuts the door for her and taps on the window a few times after she turns on the engine. There’s a moment where he’s prepared to jump back so she doesn’t run over his feet, but she complies and he leans down slightly. “I know your intention is to not leave a child pining for their mother, but if I may make one request, try to stop by now and again. I’m sure Master Bruce will agree once his initial anger subsides.”

She’s pensive for a few moments, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel. “You’re telling me to break in for a playdate?”

“I’m telling you a way to maintain a relationship with your son, Miss Kyle,” he says, “one that agrees with your preferred lifestyle.”

“It’s starting to sound like a lecture,” she snaps at him and starts rolling up the window. When it’s just a crack, she says, “I already planned on it.”

“Good to hear.” He won’t bother trying to suss out if it’s true or not, the end result is identical. “Have a safe drive, Miss Kyle.”

“You aren’t getting this car back,” she says with a firm shake of her head. “Thanks, Alfred.”

-

The moment Bruce sees a car driving away from the Manor he counts the seconds before Alfred appears at his bedroom door with a tea tray and a sympathetic look. Nearly three minutes.

“She's gone,” he tells Alfred before the tray even makes contact with the bedside table. There's a delay of the light clattering of metal on wood, and Alfred covers up the sound of pouring liquids with a curt, “I'd gathered as much.”

“You heard us?”

“I just so happened to witness her attempt to steal a car outright and opted to just give her the keys, since she wasn't likely to be deterred.” Bruce turns towards Alfred and opens his mouth to protest, but Alfred gives him a very paternal look and he closes it again. “Even if I hadn't witnessed it I could make a good guess, sir.”

“You're saying I'm pouting,” he feels like he's growling. It may just be the sore throat he's given himself trying to reign in his reactions.

“I wouldn't call it that, Master B,” Alfred says. He places a cup of tea in one of Bruce's hands and guides him to the edge of the bed. “No caffeine. You'll thank me when you manage to get a few hours of sleep.”

“What would you call it?” Bruce directs his question to his cup of tea, watching the steam steadily rise from the surface, but it's Alfred that answers.

“Loss,” he says. “More loss of an idea, I suppose, but loss is still loss.”

“You knew this would happen.”

“I'm fairly certain you did as well, Bruce.” He blinks, still somewhat startled whenever Alfred ignores etiquette, and looks up from the tea as Alfred sits beside him. “Am I wrong?”

Bruce huffs, “I don't know.”

“Wound's still fairly fresh.” It's an understatement, Bruce still considers his bedroom the scene of the accident, and Alfred the first responder. “I don't think it's been long enough to have hindsight about all this.”

Bruce is about to ask how long is long enough when there's plaintive, loud wailing over the baby monitor. He gulps down about half of his tea and stands. “I need to go.”

“I can keep an eye on things for a night,” Alfred offers. “Savor one of your last nights of good sleep.”

“No,” Bruce shakes his head, “this is the responsibility I accepted.” He sets the cup on the tray and turns down the volume of the monitor by a few clicks. “Thank you, Alfred. You're dismissed for the evening.”

“We'll see if you still feel that way in the early morning,” Alfred says, but he rights himself using the bedpost and straightens out his jacket. “Give my regards to Young Master Patrick when you arrive.”

“I will, thank you,” Bruce smiles briefly, and he rushes out of the bedroom and down the hall to the nursery.

-

Oswald isn’t even halfway through the front page story above the fold when Ed turns to him moments before takeoff and quietly proclaims, “I haven’t taken anything.”

“Good for you,” Oswald says at first, then he slowly sets the paper down on his lap and turns to Ed; he’s already looking a bit queasy and they aren’t even in the air. “Could you repeat that?”

“I was hasty, and now we’re already seated,” he grips the plush arms of their first class seats and grimaces. “It isn’t instantaneous, and If there’s unexpected turbulence at the start of the flight-”

Oswald pats Ed’s hand and continues to tap along his knuckles while he searches his carry on with his other hand. Inside one of the front flaps he finds Ed’s Dramamine, turns Ed’s right hand over, and places the small roll of tablets on his palm. “Take it now, at least.”

“The delay-”

“Won’t be an issue,” Oswald assures him. Ed unclenches his left hand from the armrest and unwraps a single dose of Dramamine from the roll, tossing it back without bothering to wait for their stewardess to come by with refreshments. “Now just sit back and do a crossword or something. Here,” he unfolds his paper and flips until he finds the crossword on one of the inner pages. “Work on this until the flight takes off.”

“This won’t take that long,” Ed says, but he still accepts the paper and pulls a pen out of his pocket. Oswald rubs his thumb and pointer finger over the base of Ed’s skull while he fills in the boxes at high speed. “Readership must be abysmal.”

“Are you basing this solely on the quality of the crossword?”

“Yes,” Ed says, and he hands the paper back to Oswald, who boggles down at the filled in puzzle for a moment before shaking his head fondly and setting it aside. “If I could just have my  _ tablet _ -”

“Shush,” Oswald presses his fingers in a bit harder and Ed groans softly. “You’re tense.”

“I don’t like to fly,” he snaps. Oswald doubles his effort to relax Ed’s jaw using massage. Ed’s eyes close with contentment, then flutter open with alarm. “Os-”

The speakers above them hiss and a drawling, calm-voiced man begins giving them the standard flight spiel. Oswald does his best to tune it out and focus on the fact that Ed’s stopped blinking entirely and he’s doing his best to tear holes in the armrests. “Ed, Ed?” He physically turns Ed’s head to the right and stares him right in the eyes. “Edward Edwin Nygma, you will focus on me, understand? I. Am. Right. Here. Give me your hand-” the sudden death grip Ed has on Oswald’s left hand nearly makes him scream, but he holds in his various explicatives for the sake of not being kicked off the flight. He uses his free hand to trace the tendons on the back of Ed’s hand in swooping patterns. “Close your eyes.”

“No, no that’s- no.” Ed gulps. “I can’t.”

“In the future I’ll be sure to charter Bruce’s private plane if that would be easier to deal with.” Although he can’t imagine the nameless faces doing their damndest to ignore the two having a moment in the back corner of First Class are causing this much excess anxiety. “Or I'll just buy all of first class. If you throw enough money around people will agree to anything.”

Ed barks out a single laugh, “you need names in the seats. Birthdays. Are you going to make up people?”

“Maybe we adopted them,” Oswald jokes. He and Ed share a laugh at the notion, but Ed slips right back into panicking the second his laughter stops. “Something's different.”

“Everything's different.”

“Ah,” Oswald nods and clasps Ed's hand between both of his, dragging it up and resting his chin on top of Ed's fingers. “I'm fairly certain you're exaggerating. I'm not going anywhere without you. That hasn't changed.”

The grip Ed's left hand has on the other armrest loosens, and then all at once he's huddling in around Oswald's hands, doing his best to curl over even with the seat belt firmly in place. Oswald pulls one hand free and touches the back of Ed's head, keeping him hunched over and playing with the shorter hairs near the nape of his neck; he doesn't move away when the plane begins accelerating on the runway, nor does he try to move once they've begun to level out. His breath is a bit shallow but quiet, and the tiny gulps and clicks of his throat key Oswald in to why; Ed's never liked public crying, hardly likes doing it in private, and Oswald does his best to help Ed hide until he's worked through his swell of emotions.

“Would either of you like a complimentary beverage?” Oswald grinds his teeth a bit and releases Ed enough to turn around and shake his head in the negative, hoping that his sarcastic smile manages to convey the proper emotion of “until you don't see this particular pose I'd suggest you keep clear” but also hoping it doesn't mean their service will be abysmal for the rest of the flight.

“Water,” Ed mumbles, blinking fast and abruptly sitting up and away from Oswald, fast enough that his hand is still in it's previous position. “Please,” he adds, and a small glass of water is poured somewhere behind Oswald and then handed over him to Ed's waiting hands. Ed nods in thanks and the sound of wheels tells Oswald they're as alone as they'll get on an airplane.

“You're looking better,” he says, watching Ed sip at his water carefully, noting the way his eyes are drooping. “Ah, the drugs.”

“I feel drowsy,” he says.

“I think the solution to that is to sleep,” Oswald says, hoping it sounds as obvious to Ed as it does to himself. Ed shakes his head. “No?”

“I don't want to dream,” Ed whispers. His eyelids are drooping further despite his attempts to stay awake.

Oswald is beginning to suspect Ed's haste from earlier may have been deliberate. “I’ll wake you, if you'd like.”

“It’s an overnight flight,” Ed half whispers, half mumbles. “It's an inconvenience.”

“Yes, a mild one,” Oswald sighs. “Honestly, I've bent over backwards for your sake doing God knows what to keep you relatively intact. I can manage one late night.” Ed lets his eyes close for a moment before snapping them open again, and he looks to Oswald, fretting and fidgeting with the button seam of his cardigan. “Now,” Oswald exclaims and reclines Ed's chair for him, smirking when Ed gasps quietly and looks up at Oswald with equal parts fear and wonder, “you better listen to me Mr. Nygma. I am giving you a once in a lifetime offer. You know how much I enjoy a good night's rest.”

“Thank you,” Ed mouths, and he rests his hands on his chest. He moves his right hand so it's resting against his thigh, palm up, and Oswald laces their fingers together. Second by second Ed's grips loosens until his hand is slack in Oswald's, his head lolls slightly towards Oswald as he sinks into a deeper sleep.

Oswald didn't pack to entertain himself for a seven hour flight, he'd been anticipating indulging in a few too many glasses of wine available and passing out until they arrived sometime the next afternoon, but Ed's sleep isn't even peaceful for a full half hour before his brow wrinkles in distress. There's a worrying moment where Oswald fears Ed's managed to chip some of his teeth from clenching his jaw so tight, but it's his hand on the armrest, and his legs tensing up at odd intervals. A few gentle strokes across his brow soften some of the lines and help to ease his mouth back to a relaxed state; whispering doesn't seem to help, so Oswald keeps any words of encouragement to himself while he helps guide Ed back to a state where he'll get some proper rest.

He’s managed to alienate the stewardesses by the time the captain announces their descent, but that's fine, good even, because they don't pay any attention to Ed when he startles awake from the hissing of the speakers, or the way Oswald kisses his temple and rubs a hand over his chest to bring him down from his half awake panic. “We're landing soon,” he tells Ed several times, “we’re almost there. We'll be at the apartment within the hour. We don't have to leave for days if  we don't want to.”

“I'm a home with no walls, windows, or doors,” is the first thing Ed says once he's gotten his breathing under control. “What am I?”

“Someone who doesn't remember I didn't sleep a wink on the flight and desperately need a nap.”

Ed chuckles lightly and spreads his hand over Oswald's, keeping it against his chest. “A heart. Home is where the heart is.”

“Right,” Oswald hums to himself and closes his eyes. “If you'd mind not moving for the rest of the flight I intend to get at least twenty minutes of shut-eye, and this angle is terrible.”

Ed pats his shoulder and Oswald settles in as best he can without causing any strife due to improper landing postures. He swears he can't have slept more than five minutes but when he opens his eyes Ed is already standing in the aisle, retrieving their overnight bags from the overhead storage and smiling down at Oswald once he notices he's being watched. “Welcome to the UK.”

-

He'd been ready for a bit of resistance, maybe some extra inquiries or possible searches for contraband- it's why he had several thousand dollars in his overnight bag- what he didn't expect was a smooth, practically seamless transition from the plane to customs to the sidewalk outside the airport, excluding an amusing little hiccup when Ed's leg brace set off the metal detector.

“Remind me to thank James for making this a pleasant experience.”

“He had a direct hand in this?” Ed asks over the top of his tablet as his left hand flies across the screen. “Does the Commissioner of Gotham have that kind of pull?”

“In a grander, more metaphorical sense, yes.” Oswald takes a moment to pull Ed along towards a pick up spot for the taxi. “Are you documenting our arrival?”

“Just making a priority list,” he mutters. “Do you remember the address?”

“You're spoiling the surprise,” he says. He also sees the way Ed's lip twitches. “Hyde Park.”

“Right, the terrace,” Ed says. “Our belongings should arrive by mail in a day or so, giving us enough time to reorient ourselves to the new time zone. I've organized our to do list by priority.”

He hands over the list to Oswald, or tries to, but Oswald refuses to think too hard when they've just arrived. “Later. Tonight we're staying at a hotel. And there will be gratuitous use of room service and a whirlpool bath. Tomorrow,” he shrugs, “we could inspect the apartment, or perhaps go to the theatre. And of course there's the park.”

“I have heard they have a championship hide and seek team that trains there.” He's grinning at Oswald, cheeky, as if he hasn't just uttered something absolutely unforgivable. Oswald grips his cane tightly and imagines just bludgeoning Ed here on the sidewalk with it before calmly walking away. “Hyde Park. Hide and seek.”

Oswald breathes in very slowly, and speaks in a low warning tone. “We have been on English soil for five minutes.”

“I love you too.” That is not what Oswald was thinking in that moment. He doesn't get a chance to express this, or any of the other unpleasant thoughts running through his head, because a taxi pulls up and Ed offers his arm to Oswald. “I believe this is us.”

“Fine, yes, this is us,” he sighs. “Unbelievable.”


End file.
